Dremora
by myopichobbit
Summary: The murder of an influential member of the Hlaalu house, Kurnok Tor, provokes an investigation by Morag Tong member Greoth Omar, and what he uncovers about a certain halfblood boy may spell disaster for every living creature in Vvardenfell.
1. Prologue

Dremora 

by Liz, "Thoreau"

Disclaimer: _Morrowind _is (c) to Bethesda Softworks, and I've no claim on anything other than the original characters mentioned. This story will, at some point, contain **slash** (that is, romantic situations involving two people of the same sex, **m/m **in this case). Don't read it if that bothers you.

Author's note: This is the prologue of an epic Morrowind fanfiction that I have in the works. I have a total of seven chapters completely written, and I am halfway through with the eighth. I have a good idea of where I'm going with this piece of work and, depending on the comments I receive, I may continue to publish this story online. Hope you enjoy it. :3

* * *

Prologue 

Soft-As-Grass was a sinew of rippling muscle as he swam the stretch of the Odai River that passed through the city of Balmora, near the Bitter Coast. He knew his objective, and he knew how to carry it out—the mixture in the airtight jar lashed to his belt would be more than enough to do the job that Silk-For-Lips had commanded. A haze floated feverishly through Balmora, diluting the flaring torch lights held by sentries patrolling the city streets; there was no moon, no stars—at least, none that  
Soft-As-Grass could see. Darkness meant that his reptilian form would not be detected flitting like a fish at the bottom of the Odai.

He couldn't stay under water forever; at some point, he would have to surface and venture onto land. Summoning all the courage he felt within him, he dared to thrust his snout above the surface of the water and inhale the particles of air floating past; a Khajiit walking over a bridge, a Bosmer counting gold coins in front of an apartment, the metallic scent that clung to all of the sentries—there. That last one, that was the important one, and it was moving away from him, due east, towards the Council Corner Club.

He swam towards the embankment and flattened himself out in the muck for an hour or so; he let the fish in the water grow accustomed to his presence, the animals in the trees settle back into the position from which he startled them. He waited, watching like a lurking thing, until the remaining citizens drifted away from the outskirts of the city and turned in for the night.

Then, Soft-As-Grass crawled, belly to the ground, out of the slush and onto the grass. Overhead, an owl hooted at him in confusion; not wanting to attract any sort of attention, he darted soundlessly into the cover provided by the nearby swampy foliage, and proceeded to wait again.

He sat with his reptilian tail curled around his webbed toes, sharp-clawed fingers braced on his knees, and his bright topaz eyes wide and focused intently on the looming shape of a manor at the top of the hill. House Tor; he could barely understand the High Elven scribble on the banner, but Silk-For-Lips had told him that the one he wanted was inside that building. He hadn't specified who—he hadn't needed to. Soft-As-Grass was not the brightest of the Argonian race, but his memory was efficient enough for him to remember the slate gray face of Kurnok Tor.

He'd memorized the schedules of the Balmora sentries; Silk-For-Lips had judged his character quite accurately when he noted that Soft-As-Grass was a diligent study, if a slightly slow one. At one in the morning, the sentries would congregate at the north-eastern edge of the town, quite opposite the stilt strider dock. Soft-As-Grass knew the man guarding the stilt strider this night; the man was as idle in his job as his watch was large. Soft-As-Grass would have no trouble getting past him. He waited for another minute or so until the last of the sentries' glowing torch lights had disappeared. Then, rising slowly, he moved through the underbrush, up the slope, past the stilt strider, and towards the staircase that led to the manors of Balmora.

He didn't venture into the central plaza; there were no sentries, but one couldn't be sure if anyone was leaning out an open window smoking a cigarette, or if perhaps a girl out for a late night walk might be wandering about. Soft-As-Grass couldn't risk any witnesses, and the thought of taking the life of someone undeserving of death made him sick to his stomach. He stuck to the shadows until he reached the staircase, then bolted up it.

There was a single sentry still standing guard between two of the manors; he didn't look very happy about being out in the middle of the night, guarding two disgustingly rich merchants who, in all likelihood, didn't deserve half of their riches anyway. Soft-As-Grass waited in the shadow of another manor until the guard, gathering his shield and sword, sauntered off in the direction of the apothecary. Soft-As-Grass couldn't risk losing his opportunity. As soon as the sentry disappeared around the corner, the soft clink of his boots audible and moving away from him, the Argonian shot like an arrow towards the staircase leading towards the upper levels of the Tor manor.

As Silk-For-Lips had promised him, the lock to the door was tripped, and so all Soft-As-Grass had to do was slip his probe into the key hole and give it a soft turn. The door came open with little protest and, a giddy anticipation flooding his cold-blooded veins, Soft-As-Grass disappeared inside.

The door closed and locked behind him.

---


	2. Chapter 1

Dremora 

by Liz, "Thoreau"

Disclaimer: _Morrowind _is (c) to Bethesda Softworks, and I've no claim on anything other than the original characters mentioned. This story will, at some point, contain **slash** (that is, romantic situations involving two people of the same sex, **m/m **in this case). Don't read it if that bothers you.

Author's note: The first chapter introduces two characters that I really enjoy writing. 'Rilo and Yfael, for a little while, serve as a sort of comic relief when playing against the backdrop of a vicious murder.

* * *

Chapter One

"It looks really ugly."

"Just hit it with something, maybe it'll go away."

The first boy hadn't even wanted to leave his father's farm in the first place, but his friend was insistent that what they were going to see was worth it. They stood atop the ruins of a shipwreck at the mouth of the Odai River, barefoot and scrambling clumsily across the slick wooden deck to get to the cabin door. Nestled, frightened, in about a foot's worth of water near the prow was a mudcrab; it made little hissing noises every time one of them slipped too close.

His friend managed to get a good grip on something firm inside the cabin and tugged himself in, then turned and offered a hand back. The first boy grabbed his hand and was pulled inside. They sat hunched over together and peered outside at where the angry animal was cornered, snapping its claws.

"This is all your fault, Yfael," the first boy accused, feeling cold despite the warmth of the fading summer; his clothes were soaked through with sea water, he had no shoes, and, as was the case with some Dunmer, he was bald. The very tips of his elongated, elven ears extended just beyond the top of his head.

"What're you talking about?" Yfael replied with a half-snort, half-giggle, "This is awesome! I've never been this close to a mudcrab before, Mother normally makes me come inside—"

"And with good reason, stupid! You're gonna get your head bitten off one of these days, and y'know what? I'll _laugh._"

"Will not," Yfael challenged.

"Will too!"

"Liar!"

"I am _not! _You're the one who's—"

The mudcrab gave a sudden noise of fright and tried to scuttle away towards a hole in the hull; both boys fell silent and strained their hearing. Loud, shouting voices, the angry splash of water as a good twenty or so steel-booted feet crashed through it. Yfael's slate gray Dunmer visage lost all pigment in it. His hand reached out to clutch at his friend's.

"'Rilo, what is that?" he whispered frantically.

'Rilo shook his head slightly and cautiously leaned forward to peer out of the wreckage towards the sound. He squinted through the morning fog; it was always impossible to see anything in this part of the world, partially because of the fog that resulted from humidity and partially because it stayed _dark _so late into the day. He lifted a hand up to his face and tried to get a better look.

He gasped.

A cluster of Imperial soldiers from Moonmoth Fort were congregated around the mouth of the Odai River, hunting through the shallows with their spears and swords, listening to the angry shouts and commands of a flushed captain who 'Rilo, without having any knowledge of the man's temperament or character, automatically did not like. He turned one ear slightly in the direction of the men, trying to hear what the captain was saying without giving away his and Yfael's location.

"What's going on?" Yfael hissed, reaching a hand out to clutch at his pants' leg fearfully.

"Stop it, you're making me wobble!" 'Rilo snapped back, flailing a hand at Yfael before clutching at the door to the cabin again. His eyes returned to the screaming Imperial man. "Looks like there's some sort of problem down at the mouth of the river; this one guy is really angry…"

"Is it an army guy?" Yfael asked, suddenly excited. He clamored across the slick wood to grab hold of the door frame beside 'Rilo's hands. "Is it? Is it a knight? I bet it is! It is, isn't it!"

"No!" 'Rilo growled, exasperated, and rolled his eyes. "It's some of the members of the Imperial legion, from Moonmoth Fort. Look, can't you see their crests?"

"What're they looking for?" Yfael became serious again.

'Rilo's attention returned to the uniformed men, who were sloshing about in the shallows and slapping their broadswords down into the water. The captain, a strong, heavyset man with severe features and cold eyes, paced along the shoreline, staring into the saltwater with the intensity of a predator. He moved with the rolling gait and confidence of a tiger; the few men who stumbled after him seemed wholly unimpressive, even in the same uniforms, when placed beside the other man. Despite his fear and dislike, 'Rilo couldn't take his eyes off of the Imperial.

The closer the entourage got, the more audible bits of their conversation became. 'Rilo strained his hearing.

"Are you certain that it came this way?" the captain sharply demanded of the guardsman directly behind him. He spun on one steel-booted heel and stood at rigid parade-rest, while the two guardsmen struggled to attention. The one addressed saluted.

"Yes, sir. Tor manor guards chased him in this direction," he took a wheezing breath, which took all of the military bearing out of his poise and speech, "p-prior to our involvement." A stupid blink. "Sir."

"Tor manor guards are little more than noblemen's favorites armed with sharp objects," the captain retorted scathingly, his upper lip curling as though offended. "You would trust the judgment of a simpleton over that of a witness?"

"There were no witnesses, sir," interjected the second guardsman.

The captain was incredulous. "None at all," he stated, voice deadpan.

"None, sir," the first said.

Witnesses? 'Rilo exchanged a frightened look with Yfael, who sank back into the cabin and tried to crawl as far out of reach of the doorway as he could. Stumbling a little on the slick floor, 'Rilo followed suit, and soon both boys sat huddled in a slightly damp corner, holding tightly to their arms and shivering.

"Y'think it was a murder?" Yfael whispered gravely. He turned to look at 'Rilo in the darkness.

'Rilo didn't want to answer; he knew he had to, but he still hesitated. Then, nodding slowly, "Yeah… yeah, I think it was a murder."

"Think we should tell those guards that we're here?"

"No!" 'Rilo almost squeaked, looking terrifying. Yfael gave him a strange look, and he quickly regained his composure. "No. Those are Imperials—humans. They don't like Dunmer, and they'd probably torture us if they knew we were in here. Humans like doing those sorts of things; Papa told me so."

"That's crazy," Yfael whispered meekly, terrified.

'Rilo turned away from the ashen look on Yfael's face and drew his knees up to his chest, shivering. "No… We'll wait until they're gone, then go home."

The captain didn't have the patience to linger near the place where a fugitive murder had escaped right beneath his nose, and so he marched his troops back along the shore of the Odai River, back towards Moonmoth Fort. 'Rilo and Yfael remained inside the cabin of the shipwreck until there was no suspicious sound anywhere nearby; not the crunch of rocks and sand beneath steel boots, not the hushed whisper of voices surrounding the wreck—there was only the pitch and yaw of the broken ship and the receding tide. 'Rilo clamored out onto the deck stiffly and stretched; he could hear his parents fussing at him already. Why were you out so late? Don't you realize how worried we've been? Do Yfael's parents know that he was out so late too? What on earth were you boys doing? You didn't contract Helljoint, did you?

Helljoint. Pffeh.

He walked over to the side of the ship, climbed over the railing, and dropped down into the shallows. Yfael followed, and they swam to shore.

"Today's been a real adventure, hasn't it?" Yfael said excitedly as soon as they were splashing through the surf. "I mean… _wow. _An _actual _fugitive! Loose! Stuff like that never happens here!"

'Rilo, unlike Yfael, wouldn't have minded that much if they went on _less _adventures. As they walked along the shore back towards 'Rilo's farmhouse, he decided that he was going to make it a point of playing _inside _games with his friend from then on. Like darts.

---


	3. Chapter 2

Dremora 

by Liz, "Thoreau"

Disclaimer: _Morrowind _is (c) to Bethesda Softworks, and I've no claim on anything other than the original characters mentioned. This story will, at some point, contain **slash** (that is, romantic situations involving two people of the same sex, **m/m **in this case). Don't read it if that bothers you.

Author's note: Chapter two introduces the tenacious and hot-headed Imperial captain, Gerhard Tens, along with his lieutenant, Breton Edwin Biggs, and another Breton woman, Sarafina. Also introduced is the.. well, I don't want to call Greoth the _protagonist_, because there are lots of protagonist characters in _Dremora._ Nevertheless, I suppose you could call him one of two central characters of the story. Enjoy. n.n

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Chapter Two

Imperial legion Captain Gerhard Tens paced around the snobbish Dunmer guard for possibly the fifth time, and, just as had happened each time before, the Dunmer turned his narrow nose up as though insulted. Tens stopped in front of the guard finally and fixed him with a fierce, blue-eyed stare.

"One more time, sir," he inquired with forced courtesy. "From beginning to end—your story. Details are imperative."

The Dunmer guard gave him a withering, loathsome look, to which Gerhard simply sharpened his gaze and put as much malevolence into his glare as he possibly could. It was an effective stare; evidently the Dunmer did not have much behind his snobbish exterior with which to back up his disdainful mannerisms. He took a slow, world-weary breath, and spoke in a voice that was both nasal and guttural; it made Gerhard's neck hair stand on end.

"I am merely a manor guard," he began smugly, expression grave—but only because it was stylish to be 'grave' and 'Dunmer' at the same time. "Thus, I am not aware of the _exceedingly complex _goings-on of the Tor family. I can't tell you much; Master Kurnok Tor was an _incredibly _busy man with an _incredibly _busy schedule—as were most members of his family and those under his employment—"

"Your story, Dunmer," Gerhard prompted callously; he moved his hand to the broadsword at his hip.

The Dunmer's voice cracked noticeably, his beady red eyes following the path of Gerhard's hand to his hip. "I-I do, however, remember taking a bit of time off from my patrol to have a cigarette, out front," he said with a nervous, twitching smile; evidently Gerhard's threat was enough to make him talk. "And while I was out front, I noticed that there was a figure in the shadows near the Tor manor—"

"And you didn't _think," _ Gerhard began tautly, "that perhaps that figure might've been worthy of investigation? Its presence didn't vex you at all? Or did it not click in that tiny _brain_ of yours that there might've been a threat in that figure's presence?" His face was flushed from frustration and outrage; were the noble Dark Elf families of Morrowind so caught up in their own separatist ways and inner politics that they did not realize when a threat to their livelihood was nearby? Did they take _no _time at all in properly training their own militiamen?

"I was alone!" the Dunmer protested shrilly, suddenly clutching at the chair he was seated in tightly with his knobby, long-boned fingers. His red eyes darted from side to side; there was a line of sweat forming at his brow. "I was alone, and I'm only a sentry! I'm not a _melee _specialist!"

"You were _trained," _ Gerhard roared, fist darting forward to gnarl itself tightly and snugly in the Dunmer man's expensive violet shirt, "to protect your patrons, whose gold goes into your pocket biweekly! You were _trained _to obey commands and to keep a sharp and clear mind, and to wield a weapon in defense of your family's honor and crest! Don't tell me that you're 'only a sentry'! I've plenty of sentries under my command, and any _one _of my lads or lasses could've handled himself like a soldier in your situation." He drew back, a disgusted expression on his face. He looked the Dunmer up and down once, wrinkled his brow, and spat, "You ought to be ashamed of your conduct. Biggs, take him out."

The lieutenant at his side leapt out of his dazed stupor and grabbed the Dunmer guard by his elbow. "This way, you," he growled gruffly.

"Release me!" the Dunmer spat in vicious retort, getting to his feet so that he towered a good foot or so over even Captain Gerhard Tens. He glared at each of the men; the hatred in his red eyes was matched only by the fierce tenacity in Gerhard's. "The Tor house will have your head for your _extreme_ disrespect and impropriety, Captain Tens," the guard snarled, then spun on one heel and stormed from the holding cell.

Gerhard stared after him impassively, keeping one hand on the hilt of his broadsword while his men lingered by in tense uncertainty. The lieutenant, Biggs, when his captain made no move to speak or exit the cell, tentatively murmured, "Captain?"

Gerhard took a slow breath. "A retainer from the Tor house should be here within the hour, Biggs," he said heavily. "Inform our publican, and see to it that he is welcomed and given good quarters tonight."

Biggs bowed his had in acquiescence. "Yes, sir." He motioned to the lesser infantrymen beside him, and both of them moved quickly towards the main tower of Moonmoth Fort.

Gerhard knew, logically, that he should be the one overseeing the operation. The men of Moonmoth Fort were his responsibility, and forcing the task upon Edwin Biggs, however a sturdy and obedient Breton he may have been, was simply inviting criticism. How could Gerhard ever expect to make Major if, as a captain, he couldn't keep a firm enough hand on the men under his command? He could not continue delegating out such crucial matters to lieutenants still wet behind their ears. If he was not careful, _Biggs_ would be the one signing his paycheck and slipping gold into Gerhard's pocketbook.

He sighed tensely, a slow exhalation through his nose, then grasped his helm from where he'd set it down on the table and left the cell. Striding through the prisoners' housing, he thought about his upcoming meeting with the Tor retainer. He'd heard rumors in various taverns all across the southeastern part of the country about Greoth Omar; an outlander, they called him. A man from the Empire. Gerhard smiled grimly; at least there, he would have something in common with the Dunmer. He figured he was grasping at straws, but perhaps if this Omar fellow had even half the common sense of an Imperialist, he and Gerhard would get along fine.

He had pointedly ignored the lesser whisperings that Greoth had been seen associating with suspected members of the Morag Tong, but as he turned a corner and pushed open the reinforced wooden door leading out onto the common ground of the fort, those whisperings came back to him again. The Morag Tong. Gerhard had never dealt directly with one of the elite assassins—or if he had, he hadn't known it. Their secrecy and loyalty to each other surpassed even the close kinship ties that bound together Gerhard and the men he had served with under his first drill sergeant, and he had been confident that not even the threat of corpus could separate him from the boys with whom he'd become a man. Nevertheless, if Greoth was anything like the rumors described him to be, despite his possible affiliation with the Morag Tong, Gerhard was certain that there would be no trouble.

He glimpsed Biggs speaking with the publican just outside the main tower. Biggs caught his eye and held contact just long enough to let Gerhard know that he was acknowledged, then went back to speaking with the elegantly garbed Breton woman. Sarafina Wenjo did not even give Gerhard a second glance; in fact, she made it a point of smiling the slightest bit at Biggs once he was through talking. Gerhard noticed with a sudden rush of vexing frustration that Sarafina's hand lifted to touch Biggs' arm before it returned to her side.

"Thank you, Edwin," she said personably. "I'll see to these matters at once." Only then did her eyes move to Gerhard, before she turned quickly and headed back into the tower.

Gerhard shot her a venomous look and quickly cast his eyes around the surrounding men, checking to see who had or hadn't seen. A few of the younger men who had been innocuously observing their captain's interest in the discussion quickly looked away; a few failed to mask snickers and private glances with each other. Incensed, Gerhard stalked towards the barracks; he felt like punching something.

Biggs caught up to him and smiled in a guilty fashion as they descended the stairs into the barracks. He shrugged and spread his arms helplessly. "All I did was ask her what you told me to ask her, Capt'n, honest—"

"Your suave tongue ought to be cut right out of your mouth," Gerhard retorted sourly, shoving the door open to his personal quarters; he left it open for Biggs to enter, if he chose to. "Particularly when you speak to women."

"Particularly women?" Biggs asked with a cool raise of his eyebrows. "Or particularly Sarafina?"

"Haven't you got other duties to be attending to?" Gerhard fired back laconically. He ripped off his leather gloves and flung them at the mattress of his bed. "Or do you want to watch me change into my civvies?"

Biggs rolled his eyes. "See you at dinner, Gerhard," he said wryly, discarding decorum for the moment. He closed the door to the captain's room. Gerhard could hear him ascending the staircase again and eventually exiting the barracks. The sound of silence filled the stone building.

Gerhard removed his heavy steel armor and changed into something a little more accommodating. He was never without armor, of course, but what he wore now was more ceremonial than functional. He donned leather cuirass and grieves, branded with the crest of the Empire. His stained work shirt was exchanged for a fanciful bit of red silk that strained across his broad, muscled shoulders and tugged tautly over his chest. His pants remained the same, functional brown leather that he always wore; they managed to look either militaristic or diplomatic depending on what outfit he chose to wear them with.

He stood in front of his looking glass and examined himself for a time. He paid special attention to his captain ranks, tweaking them and brushing them off until, along with his battle insignia and medals of accomplishment, they shone and winked in the lamplight. For the first time since he was a young boy, Gerhard allowed himself a rare, true smile, and a stirring of pride in himself. 'Ma, if you could only see me now…'

Greoth Omar arrived at Moonmoth Fort from Balmora right as the sun touched the western horizon. Gerhard had been expecting an entourage at the Dunmer man's flanks, but to his surprise, Greoth came alone, save for the presence of a Khajiit male walking at his side. Instantly, Gerhard's eyes went to the beast-man's left wrist, then his right, hunting for the enchanted bracer that would mark the feline as a slave; there was none. What was more, the Khajiit wore light armor, and carried a shield. As far as Gerhard could tell, the beast considered himself an equal to his Dunmer companion, and vice versa.

Gerhard was liking this man more and more by the minute. And they hadn't even met.

For his part, Greoth wore a style of black and green glass armor that Gerhard had never seen before. It rippled and glittered in the afternoon sunlight and seemed to possess the unique ability to capture light particles within its many prisms and contain them, a storage unit for light. Gerhard couldn't tell if the attribute was a trick of his eyes or an embellishment added to the armor by enchanters. Judging by the way Greoth carried himself and the expensive jinksword at his belt, the Dunmer had acquired enough wealth to afford such luxuries.

Gerhard felt a bit foolish for having every man under his command fall in on the common ground to welcome a single Dunmer retainer and a Khajiit companion. He'd been expecting a full platoon of guardsmen to be accompanying Greoth, but evidently the man had come alone. Judging by the subtle upward arch of Greoth's dark eyebrow, he found all of the extra fanfare a bit amusing. He stood just inside the great stone archways and clasped his gauntlet-covered hands together behind his back; his Khajiit companion sniffed the air and looked from Greoth to the entire company of men across from them.

"A surprising turnout," the Khajiit murmured in a silken, purring tone that sounded long and drawn-out to Gerhard's ears. Greoth merely smirked once and nodded his agreement.

'Well, you've succeeded in making a fool of yourself enough as it is, Tens,' Gerhard lightheartedly chided himself. 'Might as well own up to your mistake.' He cleared his throat, smiled gruffly, and advanced forward away from his men; he barely caught Sarafina's rolling eyes as he walked forward, and that one little blow to his confidence was enough to make him stagger-step once. His jaw tightened. 'Damn that woman!'

Greoth waited patiently until Gerhard had come to a stop in front of him, before he smiled in return and offered his hand out strongly. "Captain Gerhard Tens, am I right?" he asked, his voice a friendly tenor. He spoke like a warrior; Gerhard was on familiar ground again.

He grasped the offered hand and held it in a firm clasp, nodding brusquely. "You are right," he said, then gestured to the rest of his company. "I had the entire group of them fall in; admittedly, we were expecting a little more than just you and your…"

"Ah." Greoth smiled again and turned to the Khajiit, settling a hand on one of the feline's muscular forearms. "This is my good friend, Si'Rah Thenesta. I requested that he be allowed to accompany me. Surely this will not inconvenience you in any way?" His eyes returned to Gerhard, his expression, despite the smile, plainly stating that whether or not this was an inconvenience to Gerhard, Greoth didn't care. Si'Rah would be staying.

Gerhard had little experience with the Khajiit race, but he knew enough about them to know that they were _ not _animals and that they deserved the respect of any other sentient race. That did not make it any easier for him to smile courteously at Si'Rah and offer his hand out as well. "I extend my hospitality to your friend as well, without question. You will join us at our dinner table?"

"Si'Rah has eaten," the Khajiit answered slowly. He did not accept Gerhard's hand at once, but examined it thoughtfully before taking it in his clawed feline paw; Gerhard's large hand practically disappeared once Si'Rah's fingers closed around it. "Si'Rah shall wait out here for Greoth."

Greoth spread his arms plaintively and smiled again. "There you have it! So, you said something about food, did you? I'm just about famished, myself; I don't have the ability to stomach raw meat like Si'Rah here, so I'll be more than happy to rid you of any excess victuals you have lying around."

Gerhard smiled rigidly. "Yes. Dinner. Right this way."

Sarafina rolled her eyes again and headed back towards the main tower; Gerhard had to fight down the sudden urge to either weep with humiliation or ring her fragile little neck.

---


	4. Chapter 3

Dremora 

by Liz, "Thoreau"

Disclaimer: _Morrowind _is (c) to Bethesda Softworks, and I've no claim on anything other than the original characters mentioned. This story will, at some point, contain **slash** (that is, romantic situations involving two people of the same sex, **m/m **in this case). Don't read it if that bothers you.

Author's note: I don't like how this chapter came out, but there's really nothing I can do about it. I got a few key points in, mostly in regards to characters and their personalities. The only part I'm remotely happy about is the little interlude between Greoth Omar and Kehrik Tor at the end of the chapter. ;3 **Implied slash warning for this chapter.**

* * *

Chapter Three 

Dinner was supposed to be an informal occasion, judging by how all of the soldiers jovially went to their seats, laughing and boasting and sloshing greef all across the floor. Greoth Omar followed Gerhard through the aisles until they reached a smaller table set away from the wider, longer ones. It was crafted from a type of black wood that Greoth had seen a few times before during his trip through the Ghostfence.

Gerhard sat down at the table, and he was soon joined by Lieutenant Biggs and the publican, Sarafina Wenjo. Greoth took a seat across from Gerhard and waited in silence for the captain to address him.

He ended up waiting for a while. Evidently these staunch officers had forgotten what it meant to have a good time, unlike the enlisted ranks that dominated the mess hall. Greoth glanced once over his shoulder and found himself wishing he'd chosen to sit at one of those tables; not only would he probably find himself in more enjoyable company, but it would give him the perfect opportunity to use his keen hearing to the best of his abilities and pick up a bit of the local gossip. He and Si'Rah had other business near Balmora other than investigating his patron's murder.

Before departing from Vivec Greoth had done a thorough examination of every writ recently put out by the Morag Tong. He'd gone through archives and rooted through trash bins and had forcefully interrogated every member of his guild in Vivec and Sadrith Mora—and had found nothing. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or not. Regardless of whether or not the murder had been legitimate or not, _someone _had wanted Kurnok Tor dead, and now he was. Someone had managed to break into the Tor manor, and someone had placed a poisonous mixture into the aging Dunmer lord's tea.

He came back to himself long enough to realize that Gerhard was pointing a steady, penetrating stare straight through his head. Greoth's eyes narrowed the slightest bit and returned that stare. Gerhard smirked.

"So," the Imperial captain began, dipped his spoon into the bowl of soup-like stuff laid out before him on the table. "What do you know?"

"What do I know of what?" Greoth replied with an enigmatic smile; that expression always drove military types crazy.

And it did, too. Gerhard's expression hardened, and color rushed to his neck and ears. "The _murder, _Dunmer, what _else _would you know about?"

"Plenty of things," Greoth began with a wide look of innocence on his face. He began ticking things off on his leather-gloved fingers. "I could give you a list, in alphabetical order, of every member of the Tor house currently residing in the Telvanni Compound in Vivec. I could give you detailed explanations of their families and their political alliances and why they choose to ally with one family over another. I could give you a list of possible marriages that may transpire in the following year, and then an inventory of each of the groom's or bride's family's current—"

"Enough."

"Well, you asked what else I would know about." He smiled.

Down the table, Biggs and Sarafina were trying very hard not to grin.

Greoth felt a little sorry for picking on Gerhard in such a manner, but the man practically begged for it with his rigid stature and his strict adherence to military protocol. Then again, in such an environment as this, with such rowdy young men crowding him at all times, Gerhard probably had no choice _but _to be the reigning voice of reason. He looked respectable enough; from what Greoth could see of the captain, he was in exemplary physical shape, with no excess weight clinging to his midsection or to his face. He was handsome, walking that thin but alluring line that all men must walk between youthful adulthood and the middle-ages. His hair was thick and brown, curled tightly against his skull so that it might've served as a second helm were Gerhard to misplace his issued one.

Greoth suspected that when he was genuinely angry, his eyes would turn an even darker shade of brown than they already were.

If he were Dunmer, the Tor retainer might've fancied him.

"Back to the issue at hand," Gerhard said gruffly, bringing Greoth back to himself. "Were you able to get a look at the crime scene before you came here?"

"A dutiful and thorough one," Greoth said. He gestured at the large tumbler of mazte in the middle of the table and caught Biggs' eye. The lieutenant passed him the container, and Greoth poured himself a large mug of it before setting it back down. "Local investigators are shat when it comes to doing a proper analysis of a crime scene, unfortunately, and failed to note that the lock was tripped from the inside."

Gerhard's surprise showed on his face. "The _inside? _How did you figure that?"

"Trust my judgment," Greoth replied with a cryptic look. "I've had a lot of experience with tripped locks."

Gerhard had a contemplative expression on his face for a moment, before he seemed to file that tidbit of information away in his mind for later pondering. He gestured at Greoth with one hand. "All right, what else?"

"There was swamp residue all over the floor. I think our attacker made a rudimentary attempt at cleaning up after himself but didn't think to scourge the rugs or any other cloth surface before he left. Footsteps are in the shape of an Argonian foot, but I'm not convinced that he—"

"Or she," Sarafina cut in primly.

Greoth looked at her oddly while Gerhard simmered. "Or she," the Dunmer conceded, before going on, "is our sole suspect."

It seemed that their conversation was now a source of interest for the other officers who had seated themselves at the table. Biggs and Sarafina were watching them, and four other gentlemen that Greoth had glimpsed on the common ground were listened with varying expressions on their faces. One of them, an impetuous young thing who looked too young to be wearing lieutenant bars just yet, piped up sarcastically with, "And you're some forensic genius, are you? So you can just discern this type of thing by looking at a couple of soggy footprints on a rug?"

"No," Greoth answered with a patient, serene smile. "I can discern these types of things because I am twice your age and have twice your wisdom. And because I have enough sense to keep my nose out of other people's business, particularly when I know nothing about what they are discussing. Perhaps you should learn from my example."

Properly chastised, the young officer looked down at his meal and brooded. His companions snorted their quiet amusement.

He turned back to his food and ended his conversation with Gerhard. The captain was too busy muttering swearwords at his underlings to pay too much attention to Greoth anyway, which gave him the perfect opportunity to let his thoughts wander and his eyes drift. He strained his hearing in an attempt to catch any snippets of conversation that might reach him from the enlisted ranks, but nothing that he heard seemed to be of much importance. There was plenty of talk about women and booze and fighting and other things that, unless he was getting paid to hear about it, Greoth found boring. He sighed morosely and resigned himself to the fact that the only good conversation he would be getting tonight would be from Si'Rah—who was, unfortunately, probably wandering the nearby hills hunting for a rabbit to snack on.

As soon as dinner was over with, Greoth followed Gerhard to his office and accepted the practically useless report of the murder that Gerhard had managed to put together. He flipped through it, scowled, then pocketed it simply because it wouldn't do for him to arrive back at the Tor house with nothing to show for his visit to Moonmoth fort save for the slight odor of alcohol on his breath.

Gerhard regarded him with a scrutinizing stare that Greoth didn't like. He stood in the doorway and returned it in silence, until he couldn't take it any longer. "Is there something you would like to ask me, Captain Tens?" he asked rigidly.

For a moment, Gerhard looked like he was going to speak. He shifted his weight in that habitual way that some men have when they engage in conversation, lifted a hand as though to point something out. Then, he seemed to think better of himself, and simply smiled—or grimaced. With these Imperials, it was always so difficult to tell the smile apart from the frown. "No," he answered at length, shaking his head. "No, there is nothing." He gestured once to the report. "Feel free to contact me if you need any more help with that case."

Greoth smiled genuinely at that and tilted his head in acquiescence. "I'll do that." He raised his hand once, then turned and headed towards the common ground. He was already itching for a meal in his fatherhouse.

* * *

Si'Rah was waiting for him outside, lounging on one of the parapets near the exit like a satiated cat. His chin rested on his folded forepaws; he resembled an anthropoid caricature of a cat, with human intelligence in his eyes. Greoth smiled at him as he made his way away from the fort. "Comfortable?" he called out with amusement.

"Very," was the gradual, purred reply. Si'Rah sat up slowly, stretched with feline grace as he rose to his feet, then leapt the good twelve feet back down to the ground. He landed in a crouch, righted himself, and walked over to Greoth. "Perhaps the stones would feel more comfortable when the sun has been resting upon them."

"Such a cat," Greoth teased, reaching up lightly to scratch behind one of the Khajiit's ears. Si'Rah allowed it for a moment, then batted his hand away and looked embarrassed.

"Si'Rah is not a house cat," he reminded.

"He acts like one sometimes," Greoth replied, easily slipping into the game of third person that Si'Rah seemed to enjoy so much. He flashed his friend a grin. "He can be lazy and insensitive and prissy, just like a house cat."

Si'Rah gave a growling huff of irritation and loped gently alongside Greoth as they followed the road back towards Balmora. They walked in silence until the city's arching entryways were a mere stone's throw from them. Then, the Dunmer adjusted his belt and looped his fingers into the belt-loops there. "I don't understand this," he said out loud at length.

Startled, Si'Rah asked questioningly, "Don't understand what?"

"Tor's murder. It doesn't make any sense, especially if our perpetrator is Argonian." He gave Si'Rah an incredulous look. "If you were an Argonian, would you agree to some ploy to assassinate the biggest advocate of Argonian and Khajiit civil liberties in the southwest? Does that sound like something an intelligent person would do?"

"No," the Khajiit agreed with reluctance. His expression was always difficult to read; he masked most of his emotions well with this sleek, feline visage, but Greoth had a way of interpreting the subtleties of his face. The slope of his ears, for instance, or the curl to his whiskers. It all came from years of knowing the Khajiit and most members of his family. "No, it does not," Si'Rah continued, bringing a claw-like hand up to scratch lightly at his chin. "So… with what do we deal?"

It took Greoth a moment to figure out his companion's backwards interpretation of 'what are we dealing with,' and it caused him to smile grimly. "I'm not sure," he said with equal reluctance. "But we've got to find a way to make sure that bull-headed morons like Tens back there don't go diving into this situation before I've been able to give it an even more thorough examination."

"Any suspicions yet?"

"Of course," Greoth returned with a grimace. "There are plenty of reasons why anyone would want to upset the Tor family economically—think of the fortune one would acquire if one played one's cards correctly. Which leads me to think that maybe our Argonian's strings were, or perhaps still are, being pulled by one of the Great Houses."

Si'Rah accompanied Greoth to the manor district of Balmora, to the doorstep of the Tor manor. Then, clasping hands once, they parted for the night.

* * *

The dining hall, intended for the use of retainers and other members of the Tor family, was vacant, save for Greoth as he took his seat at his customary place with a bowl of warm soup and a goblet of wine laid out before him. He ate in silence, musing over his food and the stillness of his fatherhouse; without Kurnok Tor's familiar laughter to blend warmly with the flickering, crackling sconces on the walls, the manor felt emptier than it had since the death of Greoth's brother. He knew that if he listened closely enough, he could hear the breathing of the tenants upstairs, of Kurnok's mourning wife keeping her silent vigil in the large window in their master bedroom.

Grief has its own song, to those sensitive enough to hear it.

"You look so solemn."

He glanced away from his meal, drawn out of his reverie by that familiar voice. His eyes found Kehrik's; Kurnok's son was as tall as Greoth now, and the retainer had to remind himself often that he was no longer a boy. He had the pretty visage of a girl, the slender frame of a dancer. Nothing about him was resemblent of Kurnok Tor's broad, robust masculinity. Greoth was not nearing his middle-age years yet, but he knew that he was at least a decade and a half Kehrik's senior; he felt a sudden well of guilt plundered in his heart as he realized that he found his dead patron's son pleasurable to look upon.

Kehrik seemed to interpret everything in his stare that Greoth always strove to keep secret. The young man smiled, a slow, beautiful expression that started at the corners of his lips and drifted across his slate gray face until his rose-hued eyes were glowing with warmth. He moved away from the door way in which he was leaning, crossed the room in his night clothes and slippers, then slipped into the chair across from Greoth. He reached out one thin-fingered hand, clasped the goblet around its narrow neck, and brought the wine to his lips. His eyes regarded Greoth quietly over the rim.

Greoth found his voice and leaned back a little, feeling his limbs strain against the confines of his armor; he hadn't thought to change. "I've every right to be solemn," he pointed out, grimacing. "Your father is less than two days passed."

"Father would not have wanted you to mourn for him so," Kehrik countered with a wistful look of his own. It was accompanied shortly thereafter by a weary, humorless laugh. " 'A horrible inconvenience,' he would have termed it."

"I can hear him now," Greoth agreed quietly, smiling.

"Mm." Kehrik sat the wine goblet back down near Greoth's hand, started to pull his own away, then paused. His eyes left the gold wine glass and moved up to Greoth's eyes; his hand slipped across the silk of the tablecloth and slid into Greoth's grasp. Thin, warm fingers moved softly against Greoth's palm, causing him to jerk involuntarily and look at his patron's son with an expression of feigned incomprehension on his face.

He quickly molded the look into an, admittedly, nervous grin. "What games do you play now, you silly lad—"

"Come upstairs with me." Kehrik curled his fingers around Greoth's hand and drew it up off of the table. He leaned, with all the grace of a learned courtesan, over the table and in a movement that made Greoth's blood run hot and cold at the same time, pressed a simple kiss to the inside of his wrist, just at the juncture where the skin was no longer covered by armor.

It was a tempting proposition. Greoth's conscience chastised him vehemently, reminding him that the coy minx across from him was hardly out of his teenage years, and what was more, he was _Kurnok Tor's son. _He was the boy that Greoth had called "'Rikky" for so many years, the boy he had taught to swim when he had first come aboard as a simple servant for the Tor house. He used to walk around Balmora with Kehrik on his shoulders, buy him pastries from the market stands. He used to slip the lad sips of his _mazte, _for the love of the Nine. What would Kurnok think of him now if he saw Greoth desecrating his son in such a manner? Surely Kehrik wasn't old enough to be so confident about his sexuality! Surely this was just coy experimentation. If it was just that, then Greoth knew immediately that he wanted no part of it.

He drew his wrist back and gave Kehrik a stern, reproving look. "You know not the consequences of your actions, boy," he said calmly, making a point of referring to his mentor's son as a child. "I can't even consider accepting your request."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, Greoth!" Kehrik almost laughed, clearly seeing straight through Greoth's strict façade. He was grinning cheekily, enjoying himself immensely as Greoth's cheeks flushed red with a blush. "You look at me now as you look at Errelion when you spar with him. I'm not blind."

"No, you're not," Greoth allowed with a weary sigh. "You're a boy, which is worse than being blind. At least when one is blind, one still has ready access to one's other _sensible _senses. A boy is dull to everything. And you cannot know enough about yourself at your age to even fathom the repercussions of what you may do."

"I know enough about myself, _'at my age,' _to know when I want someone." Kehrik's thin eyebrow arched in challenge, his rose eyes narrowing. He looked like a vexed feline, slim tapered ears swept back through his raven hair and his elongated fingers interlocked together and resting against one cheek. His stare bore through his lashes, fixed on Greoth's face. "Don't tell me you think that somehow you'll be offending my father if you decide to bed with me tonight." He gave a bitter smirk and closed his eyes long enough to sweep his bangs away from his face with one hand. His voice was thick with sarcasm. "Please, Greoth, you can't possibly be as superstitious a man as you are easy on my lonely eyes."

"At my age," Greoth replied tightly, getting to his feet and reaching for his shield, "a man wants more than just the assurance that his body is pleasing to his lover's eyes in a moment of loneliness spurred by grief." He kept his expression cold, even at Kehrik's surprised and affronted glare. "I am not going to ruin our friendship in this way, Kehrik. Your father would never have forgiven me."

"You're right," Kehrik allowed stiffly.

"Good," Greoth muttered, starting to relax, when Kehrik continued.

"But my father is dead, and he can't be here to tell me that I am bastardizing his name by preferring male companionship over female." He got to his feet as well and crossing his thin arms over his chest. His young face was set tautly in defiance. "What are you so _afraid _of, Greoth? Discovery?" A calculating look came across his face. He moved around the table, defeating the one barrier that stood between his willow-thin frame and Greoth's more solid one. "No one need ever know. This can be concealed from my mother and the rest of the house. What are the chances of our being caught, if it only happens once?"

Greoth was already counting the moments until the end of Kehrik's speech; the door leading out into the manor district of Balmora was looking so very wonderful now. His temporary lust for Kehrik was overruled now by something far more fundamental and necessary than fleeting companionship. It was loneliness. He wanted _more _than just that passionate fire that burned within all boys. He wanted _more _than just one night with someone he would never kiss again, never hold again.

Greoth was ready to settle down. And this boy was not what he needed.

The look he gave Kehrik silenced any further arguments on the part of his patron's son. Kehrik's expression became blank for a moment, then his brow wrinkled with his frustration. His thin fingers curled into fists at his sides. "You'll regret this in the morning," he muttered with the petulance of a child, right before he turned and walked, vexed, in the direction of his sleeping chambers.

Greoth remained standing stiffly until he heard the close of Kehrik's bedroom door, accompanied by a lock as he made certain Greoth could not follow him. Then, he sighed with withered relief and sank down into his chair again. For a moment, he sat still, letting the events that had just transpired sink into him; his passing desire was replaced by the sting of hurt. Had Kehrik thought so little of their friendship that he would jeopardize it so by taking their relationship to a level it was never intended to go? Had Greoth truly become just a prize to the boy? Something to be obtained through seduction? And so soon after his father's murder!

He chalked up the outrageous behavior to just that—grief. The boy Greoth knew and loved as an endearing nephew was too sweet of a lad to have normally attempted something like this; it had to be grief.

Greoth reassured himself with this as he gathered his shield up again, shouldered its burden, and let himself out of his fatherhouse and into the manor district. He would be sleeping in Si'Rah's shack again, it seemed.

---


	5. Chapter 4

Dremora 

by Liz, "Thoreau"

Disclaimer: _Morrowind _is (c) to Bethesda Softworks, and I've no claim on anything other than the original characters mentioned. This story will, at some point, contain **slash** (that is, romantic situations involving two people of the same sex, **m/m **in this case). Don't read it if that bothers you.

Author's note: I've brought 'Rilo and Yfael back into the story, and from now on, the two boys will be leading two separate adventures entirely. Seeing as they've now had two chapters entirely devoted to them (this one included), it should now be evident that they aren't just two random characters put in for the sake of comic relief. It was really quite hard for me to write this chapter, just because I knew when I started it what was going to happen at the end. Hope you enjoy it.

* * *

Chapter Four

A fortnight passed from his misadventure on the shipwreck, and Vermillio, or 'Rilo, figured it was safe to attempt fishing in the Odai River again. Waiting two weeks to make sure all the soldiers were gone was long enough, wasn't it?

He waited inside the farmhouse until he was confident his father was asleep, then cautiously got together his fishing rod, bait, and a bucket for anything he caught. He pulled on his ratty fishing pants and didn't bother with a shirt; the fish always got it gunked up anyway, and it would give away what he was doing to his father. He wasn't sure why his father was so stingy about him going out to fish at night; it wasn't that much of a walk, really, as long as he steered clear of any activity going on near the plantations. For some reason, he was always mistaken for a servant when he wandered that way; was it his hair? Or lack thereof?

He crept outside slowly, easing the creaky old door closed and then breathing a sigh of relief as he went undetected. His father slept inside unaware.

"Goin' fishing?"

He nearly jumped out of his skin, and the only reason he didn't cry out was because he clapped his hand firmly over his mouth to silence the noise. He shot an accusing glare at Yfael, who was crouched on a boulder beside his father's saltrice field grinning his head off. "Stupid!" he hissed, "You could a' made me wake my father!"

"Not my fault you squeal like a girl!" Yfael teased, hopping off of the boulder and beginning to walk in the direction of the Odai. "So why didn't you tell me you were going fishing? You know I like fishing, you shouldn't hold out on me like that."

"Shut up, at least until we're away from the saltrice."

"Someone's crabby," Yfael muttered.

"I'm not crabby," 'Rilo snapped back, but it was a moot statement.

They picked their way through the saltrice field, heading over the hilly landscape until they could glimpse the glittering snake of a river twisting and twining its way southward. 'Rilo slid down the steep embankment with Yfael close behind. "There's a bridge this way," he said. "I found a bunch of kollops in there last time I went swimming."

"Found any pearls yet?" Yfael teased, and 'Rilo felt a sudden swell of pride in his chest as he answered aloofly:

"If I did, why would I tell you?"

Yfael faltered, looking surprised. "Wait… y'mean you _did _find some? Actual little white round things?" He held up two fingers in mimicry of a circle, gawking at his friend. "Those things are worth… like… a lot of money! You should go get money for them from a tradehouse or something, 'Rilo; imagine how much _gold _that would get you!"

"How d'you know I haven't already done it?" 'Rilo shot back; inside, he was grinning. It was just about time for Yfael to get a nice, big taste of his own medicine.

Yfael scowled. "You traded in your pearl without letting me see it first?" He actually sounded hurt. "Yeah, well… fine." The boy fell into a sulky silence, picking at his hair as they walked along the shoreline.

'Rilo actually felt a little bad for deceiving his friend, but he decided to let Yfael stew for a little longer before he let him know that there actually was no pearl at all. He could see the bridge coming into sight before them; the sky was a deep blue-black, swathed with purple, overhead. He couldn't see any stars, for some reason; was it overcast?

Yfael gave a sudden gasp and latched onto his forearm with a grip like a vice. "'Rilo, look!" he hissed, pointing towards the shore across the river from them. 'Rilo followed Yfael's finger, then had to swallow back the sudden sound of fright that welled up inside his gut. "What is it?" Yfael continued, beginning to shake so that 'Rilo started to shake as well.

"Looks like a dragon," 'Rilo murmured, creeping towards the water slowly and putting his fishing gear down. "A… really little one."

"Does it have wings?" Yfael asked, suddenly excited again. 'Rilo rolled his eyes; Yfael was always euphorically giddy over something, sulking, or terrified.

"I can't tell," 'Rilo said. He started to wade out into the water. "I'm gonna try to get a better look."

It wasn't a dragon—it was an Argonian, curled up with a bit of ragged cloth pulled over his body to ward off the chill of the night. He was sleeping in a bit of concave rock, his reptilian face nestled into the crook of one arm. 'Rilo slowed before he got too close to the shore; he didn't want to wake the 'dragon' by sloshing out onto the dirty sand beside him. Instead, he slipped back into the water and paddled back over to where Yfael was pacing anxiously on the shoreline. The other boy's eyes were fixed on their new discovery with bright anticipation glowing from within; if he wasn't so young, he might've been labeled as a moon sugar addict.

"Well?" he asked in a whisper trembling from delight, smiling widely. "Is it? Is it a dragon? I bet it is! It is, isn't it!"

"No!" 'Rilo growled, exasperated, glancing over his shoulder one more time to gaze at the sleeping creature. "It's… one of those lizard people. Y'know, like the slaves on the Dren plantation. I think he's napping."

Yfael's eyes became two wide, rose-tinted saucers in their sockets. "Y'think he's a runaway slave, 'Rilo? Think he's on his way to one of those abolitionists or something? Y'think he needs help?"

"I think he needs to be left alone," 'Rilo said with a sage nod and a stern frown. "We don't know anything about him. What if he's a bandit or something?"

"He looks so cold…" An empathetic look came across Yfael's face; 'Rilo had never seen his friend look so compassionate before. Yfael walked towards the shoreline again. "Look at 'im, 'Rilo, just sitting there with a saltrice sack for a cover. C'mon, how could he be a bandit? He's too thin. My grandma would make a better bandit than that."

"Well what do you suppose we do then, huh?" 'Rilo demanded, planting his hands on his hips and beginning to tap a toe irritably. "Walk over there and give him some sweet cakes or something? Take him home to live with us on the farm? You know as well as I that _my _ father, at least, would slap a bracer on his wrist and put him to work. What would your parents do?"

"Pro'lly the same," Yfael mumbled glumly.

"Then let's just leave it alone and go fishing, Yfael. C'mon, there's nothing we can do."

"I _guess, _but…" Yfael's reluctance to leave was making 'Rilo nervous. He hadn't intended to be out fishing long, and the longer they loitered near this sleeping creature, the greater the chances that his father would wake up and realize he was gone. 'Rilo had dealt with his father on several different occasions when his temper was foul, and if _Father _was angry, then his _mother _would be angry too. And then life would be miserable for weeks.

"Fine. You stay here. _I'm_ going fishing." He turned his back on Yfael and started walking towards the bridge again.

He refused himself the desperate urge to look over his shoulder and see if Yfael was following him. He wanted to—oh, but the gods above knew he wanted to—but he didn't. If he looked back, Yfael would know that 'Rilo _expected _him to follow, and that would just fuel his reluctance to move at all. And so 'Rilo steadfastly kept walking away, quickening his pace the closer he got to the bridge.

Then, he heard the splash.

He whirled, his heart in his throat, and watched as Yfael clumsily began swimming across the Odai towards where the Argonian was sleeping. The creature stirred in his sleep at the sound of the boy entering the water, then relaxed again, much to 'Rilo's relief. The relief didn't last long, however. Judging by Yfael's movements through the water, the boy had no intention of just getting a closer look at the creature—he was going to do something very, very stupid.

'Rilo had a sneaking suspicion that despite his earlier claims, he would not be laughing.

"Yfael!" he tried to call out, then checked himself; he didn't want to accidentally rouse the Argonian from its sleep. So his voice ended up a fragile, trembling squeak in the night, and then 'Rilo found his feet rushing back towards where his friend had entered the water of their own provocation. He tripped and stumbled a few times, but by the time Yfael was reaching the shore, 'Rilo himself was splashing into the water after him, his movements desperate. "Yfael!" he hissed again, his voice taut from fear and anxiety. "What're you _doing, _stupid!"

"I'm waking 'im up!" Yfael said stubbornly, shaking his hair out on the shore and kicking the moisture out of his shoes. Then, he walked towards the alcove, taking soft, squishing steps.

"Y_fael.."_ 'Rilo almost pleaded, wishing he was a stronger swimmer. He paddled weakly to the shore and leaned against the sand, watching in dismay.

Yfael had a stubbornly determined look on his face as he edged closer to the alcove, reaching one wet hand out to rest against the top of the cool stone. He bent his head low and ventured a cautious glance inside, gnawing at his lower lip so fiercely that it might've begun bleeding. Then, with all the gentleness he could muster, he reached out one trembling hand to touch the Argonian's rag-covered shoulder.

The warmth of his palm needed only to hover over the creature's reptilian hide. A brilliant, iridescent topaz eye slid open and gazed into nothingness for a moment. Then, snapping into focus like a snake's, it zeroed in on Yfael.

Yfael didn't even have time to stumble backward as the short sword at the Argonian's hip was unsheathed, and sent plunging towards his midsection.

---


	6. Chapter 5

Dremora 

by Liz, "Thoreau"

Disclaimer: _Morrowind _is (c) to Bethesda Softworks, and I've no claim on anything other than the original characters mentioned. This story will, at some point, contain **slash** (that is, romantic situations involving two people of the same sex, **m/m **in this case). Don't read it if that bothers you.

Author's note: I'm not too happy with this chapter. Sure, I got out all of the important information that needed to be discussed, but over all, I'm just not happy with it. The writing isn't my best, but I haven't had the time to do a serious overhaul of it, and even if I did, I'm not sure I would. There is just too much in this chapter that needs to stay the same; I'm only sorry that it was one of Kehrik's chapters and not one of Gerhard's. ; I wouldn't mind so much, then. Anyway, this chapter expands upon the last one and explains the significance of little 'Rilo in the big, grand scheme of things.

* * *

Chapter Five

"As proclaimed by this document, Kehrik Tor, you are now the sole proprietor of the Tor property, the sole benefactor for the various tenants that are under your father's patronage, and you are bound by your father's agreement to serve as patron to them. Everything enclosed within this contract herein pertains solely to you, is your responsibility, and is therefore yours to do with what you will."

"This has been _explained_ to me numerous times, I don't see why I'm having to sit through another lecture when I've other matters to be attending." Kehrik gave his attorney a narrow-eyed glare and turned his back on the man, glaring sullenly out his window. Why did these bloody sharks always insist on cornering him in his private chambers? Didn't he have some authority _somewhere _in Morrowind to simply cast them out? His mother should have been the one attending to these matters, _not _ him.

"Your father's many allies simply wish to ensure that the gravity of this situation is properly impressed onto you, sir," the attorney insisted. "You are a very important man, and you now have the responsibility of living up to your father's ideals and standards. That is a _very _heavy burden for any man to carry, sir, particularly one of your inexperience and young years."

"I've enough experience to know what my father would have or wouldn't have done," Kehrik retorted coldly. "Don't speak to me as though _you _knew my father better than I did, because I can guarantee that you did not. Leave me. I don't have the patience to deal with your prattling monologue right now."

Defeated, the attorney bowed his head slowly and excused himself.

Kehrik didn't let him close the door, he crossed the room, snatched the handle, and jerked the door shut so swiftly that he heard his attorney gasp. It left the young man with a sense of vindictive pride in himself, but it was short-lived and replaced by the sort of sodden misery that seemed to follow him everywhere. He sank down into his lounge chair and drew his knees up to his chest.

His mother had come in to sit with him the night after his father's murder, to hold him while he cried; it had been shameful behavior, on Kehrik's part, and he knew that his father would not have condoned it. Kurnok did not approve of tears being shed frivolously, but how could the death of one's father be viewed as a 'frivolous' cause for tear-shedding? Kehrik could hardly think of a more noble occasion, especially considering what a respected philanthropist Kurnok had aspired to be his entire life. Looking back on his years, Kehrik couldn't recall one instant where Kurnok Tor had been anything but courteous and generous to _anyone _but slave owners—and even then he was not rude. He was firm and righteous and anyone with half a heart in his bosom should have been able to at least respect the tenacity of his spirit and the loving nature of his heart.

His murder stank of deceit, and there was an undercurrent to it that Kehrik could sense, but refused to follow. He refused to acknowledge it.

It both terrified and fascinated him that Greoth willingly immersed himself in it. He willingly stepped forward into the intrigue and the complexities and sank his fingers into their depths, hunting and searching and seeking and learning, always cautious but always unyielding. Kehrik had looked in on his office several times over the past two weeks, just to watch him work when the handsome Dunmer assassin thought his patron's son was abed. Greoth worked methodically and slowly, pouring through documents and examining bits of what Kehrik suspected to be evidence left over from the crime scene. It almost broke his heart to see things that his father had always handled so nonchalantly now bear labels signifying them as attributes of a murder scene.

He and Greoth used to have their time together, once a day, to play chess in the sitting room upstairs. They'd had that arrangement going on since Kehrik was very small, and he could remember a time when the chess table almost tapped the underside of his chin. He could remember Greoth, then, as a wiry young man without the muscle and wisdom in his eyes that he now possessed. He could remember all stages of Greoth's development, actually, and some of them had never made sense until Kehrik _ himself _realized that, however subtle his attraction to his friend was, it did indeed exist. Kehrik could recall seeing Greoth, much younger, hiding in the shadows of the swampy foliage, locked in a passionate embrace with another boy near his own age. It wasn't until many years later than Kehrik realized how absolutely without regard for the Tor family name Greoth had acted, and he suspected that that was one of the reasons why Greoth refrained from seeking companionship presently.

The envy persisted—that one, likely incredibly _stupid _human boy had been able to take from Greoth what Greoth himself refused to give to Kehrik. Likely, Kehrik had lost his chance forever.

"Damn him for treating me like a child," he muttered to himself, trying to put venom and acid into his words, and failing. He could only convey hurt and sadness, and he hoped that his ancestors weren't shaking their heads at him in dismay and disgrace. Kehrik felt himself flinch nonetheless; the Temple looked upon his 'sort' as an insult to the great deeds of the mortal warrior-god Vivec. Getting angry with the local priests would do nothing to change the opinion of the world, Kehrik knew that. But he did not want to be _punished _for wanting to be with someone who just _happened _to share his gender.

He knew that, at least, for certain: he _did _want to be with Greoth. And not just temporarily, whatever his friend might think.

But what was the use of contemplating that now? Greoth himself had said it—Kurnok Tor was only just in his grave, and before matters of the heart could be seriously considered, matters of finance, of economics, and of course, of grieving, should come first. Kehrik was coming to see that his mother, however wonderful a parent she might have been, knew nothing of managing a nobleman's household. The newly appointed lord had a sinking suspicion that before the next turn of the full moon, he himself might be seated at negotiating tables, arguing fiercely with important men he had only glimpsed through the shutters of his childhood before. It frightened him.

More frightening than that, however, was the knowledge that his father's murderer was still a fugitive. Certainly, guards had been posted at Kehrik's door, and if he ventured outside, regardless of how awkward it was, Greoth shadowed his every step. He felt like every minute of his privacy had been stripped from him, and while he appreciated the concern for his well-being, he missed having time that was exclusively his. He needed his quiet time. He needed the time that he had always taken for granted before.

With sadness, he was coming to realize that he would not have it again.

But it was a lovely day outside. He could see that from his window, at the very least, and so he crossed the room to his balcony, pushed open the doors, and ventured out onto the veranda. He took a slow, steadying breath, and leaned against the railing; it was dusk, a very pretty one at that, and he could see all the sleepy activity of the ending day manifesting itself throughout the city. Balmora was a wonderful place, and it gave Kehrik a moment of simple happiness as he reveled in the diversity of the citizens around him. He knew that this blend of peoples was a unique and splendid thing that he would never find in any other region of Morrowind.

His eyes wandered to the small cluster of men gathered at the entrance to his manor home, and his heart leapt into his throat. He would recognize the peculiar, oddly crafted blue and red tattoos that sprawled across the back of Greoth's neck anywhere, and he could see his friend standing in and amongst the throng; their voices were hushed and pitched only for the ears of their fellows, but Kehrik could see a sudden urgency leap to Greoth's features.

It saddened him, for some reason. Greoth seemed to have less time to himself than Kehrik did.

"How long have they been missing?" Greoth questioned in an even tone; there was an Imperial man in front of him wearing captain's bars, and the man was struggling not to lose his calm in the face of Greoth's affected impassivity.

"Vermillio Lasase says that his boy has a penchant for fishing in the early hours. He suspects that the lad just sneaked out to do a bit of fishing, but he never came back."

Kehrik recognized that name, but he couldn't place it anywhere just yet.

"And the other?" Greoth pressed for more details; his face had lost a significant amount of color.

The Imperial man consulted a piece of parchment held by a Breton lieutenant just a few paces behind him. "Aifael Yrmis says that her boy has been missing since lunch time yesterday, but that she didn't begin to truly worry about it until that night; apparently he keeps to his dinner schedule religiously. My guess is that they disappeared together."

"If they were friends, that is likely," Greoth remarked, and he couldn't keep the wry note out of his voice. It should have been obvious, after all.

The captain's eyes narrowed in irritation, but he reigned himself in well—for a human, anyway. "There were no witnesses to any sort of a crime or wrong-doing, so for all we know the lads could just have run off to play a bit of a practical joke on their parents. It seems unlikely that there is any foul play—"

"None that _you_ can detect." There was a woman standing beside the Breton man dressed in a red cloak that stretched down to her feet. Kehrik leaned a little further over the railing to get a better look at the engagement. The woman fixed her Imperial captain with a cool stare and a serene smile. "If Yrmis says that something has befallen her boy, and Lasase is in agreement, then I would take their word over your petty speculations any day."

"On what grounds, Sarafina!" the captain sputtered back, clearly at the end of himself; Kehrik could tell that sparks flew between them, and it made him smile.

"On the grounds that I am a woman and I know what it is to have a woman's intuition!" Sarafina snapped back, earning a mild chuckle from the Breton lieutenant and a sharp glare from the captain. Sarafina continued to berate and belittle, but it was unfortunately in a voice that Kehrik could not hear. He sighed with disappointment and leaned against the railing, continuing to strain but knowing it was futile. Eventually, the company split up, and Greoth was left alone with his back to the manor and a contemplative look on his features. Kehrik resisted the sudden urge to call out to him.

He went inside—watching Greoth from the veranda did nothing but make his heart heavy and his countenance bitter. Instead he sought out his mother, where she took refuge in her bedchambers. Shandrel Tor sat in her window, as she had for weeks now, and she only looked to Kehrik when he placed his hand on her shoulder and entreated softly:

"Mother?"

"What is on your mind now, precious boy?" she asked him at length in a voice that reminded him of his grandmother, so tremulous was it, and so without substance. Her love-name for him sounded hollow, like a piece of blown glass; Kehrik cradled it within his heart as he sat on the window seat beside her. He let her take his hands; they looked like smooth slate set beside wrinkled, slightly discolored, splotched parchment. He wondered how much of that aging was brought on by grief and how much of it was truly a part of her life cycle. His mother had been nearing the end of her middle years when she had allowed Kurnok Tor to take her as his wife.

"Is it too much for me to just want your company?" he asked with a little smile, curling his fingers in her grasp and leaning to rest his brow against hers for a moment.

"I would have thought you had outgrown that," she smiled.

Their words tapered off into silence, and Kehrik let it drag out for a time. He knew he had questions to ask, and hoped that his mother was willing enough to be drawn out of her grief to answer them. He was surprised, inwardly, at how the name Lasase stuck in his mind.

"I do have a question," he ventured at length.

Shandrel Tor gave a slight "aaaah" of motherly triumph and chuckled to herself, reaching up to tap one finger against Kehrik's nose. She winked. "I knew it. Ask away."

"What does the Lasase name mean to you? It seems significant, but I can't place why."

An odd change came over Shandrel's face. Her face fell, only minutely, and for a second, her eyes drifted away from Kehrik's. She watched the manor district from her window instead, before her eyes moved back to her son. She seemed to be taking great pains in forcing herself to recall something for his benefit. "There was a great scandal surrounding that, you know," she said delicately, "around ten years ago. I scarcely doubt you remember much of it; you were far too engrossed with your studies to pay much attention to local politics or keep up with the leaflets handed out in the plaza."

Kehrik felt himself color a bit; he hadn't kept up with his studies at all.

"There was much talk of it in the conference halls. Supposedly Balmora was to have a great honor bestowed upon it; one of the Telvanni Mouths came to visit us. He was young, and handsome, and his patron was very wealthy and he showed no qualms about spending his money superfluously and then gambling it away in the local clubs. I scarce say that he would have enjoyed himself far more in Suran, if he wished to engage in that sort of thing, but I believe he was here on part of Hlaalu courtesy, and so here he remained."

"What was his name?"

"Melos," Shandrel answered; the name left her lips with something akin to bitterness that made the name sound dirty. Kehrik didn't repeat it to himself, but listened as his mother continued. "Melos Dravin, and he was as arrogant a man as any Telvanni I've ever met. He caused quite a stir when he brought his slaves with him; one among them was a High Elf, an Altmer. I don't believe he had a name, rightfully, but Dravin called him… oh, what was it…" Shandrel's expression darkened with a frown, at first.

Kehrik propped his chin up in one hand and listened attentively.

"Ah, yes," Shandrel said at length, smiling, "I remember. Dravin called him Fetcher, because he was always moving about his dwelling, fetching this or that for some purpose or another, and I suppose that name suited him well." A look of disapproval came across her features.

Kehrik grew impatient at her silence and quietly tapped his fingers together. Then, "So, Fetcher, and Melos Dravin… What is the significance, Mother?"

"The significance, precious boy," Shandrel continued, smiling in that cryptic manner that all parents possess when they explain complicated lessons to their children, "is found in Fetcher's connection to Tyls Lasase, Vermillio's wife."

"What, was there an affair?" Kehrik asked, finding a sort of amusement in the story suddenly. "Was that all? Please, Mother, scandals of a far more horrendous sort occur within the Telvanni Compound in Vivec on a regular basis."

"Yes, there was an affair," she conceded heavily, her eyes lowering. "And you are correct, worse things _have _happened. And they did happen." For a moment, she slipped into silence again, and this time Kehrik feared she would not continue at all. This was a story that, doubtless, other people knew of, but Kehrik trusted only the interpretation of his mother, and he would get it out of her, eventually. He sat still, hands now clasped before him, rose eyes fixed on his mother, waiting. That stare alone seemed to compel her to speak again, however reluctantly. "Fetcher and Tyls begot a child, Kehrik," she said softly, her words almost a breath of air. "A half-breed child. A child with Altmer magic and the face of a Dunmer, the body of a Dunmer."

The implications did not set in at first; Kehrik sat still in front of his mother, watching her, listening to her. So there was a child. A half-breed child, a cross between races. In those circumstances, Kehrik knew that certain… procedures were taken, to ensure that such a "mistake" was properly dealt with. "And… what was done with the babe?" he asked, steeling himself for the answer; though he knew it was in the best interests of his race and ordained by the Temple, the ceremonial murder of any child still seemed gruesome.

"Tyls kept the baby."

That, Kehrik did not expect. He sat, dumbfounded and amazed, staring at his mother as though she'd just spoken of touching Vivec's body. Revulsion forced bile to creep up into his throat; what sort of creature _was _the child? Did he practice Altmer magic and Altmer customs? Did he see his biological father at all, did the man imprint thoughts of resistance into his head?

"Her husband was not pleased, but who could blame him? Vermillio Lasase was a very proud farmer, and even though his status was not that of a noble's, his reputation allowed him to challenge Fetcher to a duel. I don't believe Melos Dravin cared at all; by the time the child was born he was already back in Sadrith Mora, doing the bidding of his patron. At Lasase's request, he did send Fetcher back to Balmora to participate in the duel; I don't think he had any intention of taking the elf back into his services again even if he were to win. He expected Fetcher either to die, or to live and go to take his place by Tyls' side and make an honest woman out of her.

"Vermillio could have killed him, and I doubt anyone would have thought badly of him for it. Magic was not allowed, as Fetcher was a gifted swordsman as well as a talented earth magician. They fought in the central plaza, just outside the Fighter's Guild, and the entire city gathered down there to watch. Vermillio triumphed, and instead of ending Fetcher's life, he showed pity on him."

There was the sound of the door to the manor opening downstairs, and of chattering voices as other tenants entered; Kehrik heard Greoth's voice amongst them, and it caused him to momentarily lose interest in what his mother was telling him.

Then, "So what happened to Fetcher?" he asked, looking back at Shandrel; she'd been waiting for his attention.

"He left," she said with a shrug and a misty smile. "He thanked Vermillio for being merciful and begged that one day, he might be forgiven. And then he was gone, without a word to Tyls or his newborn son."

Something clicked in Kehrik's head, just then. Vermillio Lasase had a son. Only one son. And according to the conversation that Greoth had been having with the officials from Moonmoth Fort, he was missing.

"I've things to do," he said after that, smiling apologetically at his mother. He squeezed her hands once and kissed her cheek. "Will I see you tonight at dinner?"

Shandrel lifted her shoulders in a shrug, content to let her son slip away. "Perhaps," she said softly, looking out her window again. "Perhaps not. I think I may stay up here and keep your father company a little while longer, if you don't mind."

Kehrik smiled a little and left the room; he wasn't sure what he was feeling, but he knew he had to talk to Greoth—as soon as the man would look him in the eyes again.

---


	7. Chapter 6

Dremora 

by Liz, "Thoreau"

Disclaimer: _Morrowind _is (c) to Bethesda Softworks, and I've no claim on anything other than the original characters mentioned. This story will, at some point, contain **slash** (that is, romantic situations involving two people of the same sex, **m/m **in this case). Don't read it if that bothers you.

Author's note: I _am, _however, happy with this chapter. This came out _exactly _as I wanted it to. We learn a little bit about 'Rilo's bizarre abilities and a certain place he can go to when he wants to, a place completely unaffected by time or the other elements of the universe, and this enigmatic Gold Man who seems to be of some importance. Also, I tried to bring out the more endearing qualities that Soft-As-Grass has, so that he won't be perceived entirely as a heartless villain.

* * *

Chapter Six

For a long time, he didn't know where he was.

He wasn't asleep; he knew what it meant to have dreams, and he knew what it meant to walk in his sleep—to be awake, but not in his body. He went to That Place a lot, and sometimes there was a man there. A gold man with long, wispy white hair and eyes like amber and skin polished to such a gem-like sheen that it caught the angles of every ray of light that struck him. It was the only time he felt Right, and he couldn't explain what was Right about it, only that it was.

He went there now.

The Gold Man sat cross-legged atop a pool of water; he didn't sit _in _the water, but over it, as though he were oil and could not mix. 'Rilo walked towards him, over the water, and stood when, if he had wanted to, he could have reached out and touched the man's arm. He always felt guilty when he went There at night, because sometimes the Gold Man was sleeping, and he didn't want to wake him up. He knew without asking that the Gold Man didn't sleep often, and when he did, his rest was fitful. When he came Here, he slept an honest man's sleep and did not have nightmares.

Instead of waking him, 'Rilo seated himself in front of the Gold Man and folded his hands in his lap; he fidgeted. He knew if he wanted to, he could stay here as long as he wanted. He'd done it before, when his parents yelled at him. He'd spent an hour here, alone with a cinema of memories and thoughts around him, or with the Gold Man, talking and listening to his stories. And then when the Gold Man had to leave, 'Rilo would go back—somehow—and no time had elapsed at all. It was like this was a place created only for him and the Gold Man, and if he wanted to, he never had to go back to life at all.

He must have stayed seated there for an hour, or so it felt like. Gradually, those amber eyes opened, and the Gold Man looked at him with curiosity and affection.

'Rilo smiled. "Hi."

"You shouldn't come to me as often as you do," the Gold Man reprimanded him, but he smiled also. He set his hands to his kneecaps and shook his head slowly. "If you let your life escape you and let your mind dwell here too often, you'll lose part of yourself. I wouldn't want you to do that—you're too young."

"You always say that," 'Rilo said with a slightly sulky manner about him, but he knew that the Gold Man was right. He also knew that something had happened—to him, not to the Gold Man. Something was wrong, and it tickled the back of his conscience like a feather, causing him to squirm and giggle. His humor was infectious.

"Why do you laugh so?" the Gold Man chuckled.

"'Cause!" 'Rilo laughed. "It tickles."

"What tickles?"

"My mind. Here." He reached his hand up to tap his temple, smiling again. "Life, I guess. Something important is going on."

"Can you recall what?" The Gold Man looked interested. He sat forward, let his elbows rest on his folded knees, and let his chin rest on his fingers.

"Nah," 'Rilo said with a dismissive wave of one hand. He flopped back onto the water; it made a wet 'splat' sound behind him, but he didn't feel wet. He felt his skin press against something cool, something that flowed around him but couldn't touch him, something that refreshed him and left him feeling… indestructible. "It probably wasn't that important anyway. Dad's probably fussing at me again."

"Are you sure you are at home?"

Home.

He opened his eyes, suddenly, and the pleasant place he knew only as There was gone.

In its place was a humid, reeking swamp, and the pitch black darkness of a night with no stars or moon. He could hear the thrumming, rolling and receding sounds of the distant surf, the shrill shrieks of cliff racers calling to each other above the tangled canopy; there were crickets and crabs and animals such as he hadn't ever glimpsed before, and all of them moved like death gray silhouettes through an impenetrably dense fog.

There was an Argonian male crouched by a pool of discolored water, holding a spear in one scaly hand. He was hunting.

Memories came flooding back to him so swiftly that he jolted out of that blissful place between wakefulness and sleep. Only then did he realize that he couldn't move; his thin wrists were bound, as were his ankles. Something leathery was thrust into his mouth to keep him from crying out; his head was bent back at an awkward angle. Panic filled him, and he thrashed violently on the filthy floor of the swamp. His movements startled the Argonian. The creature turned his head sharply in 'Rilo's direction, then rushed over to him in equal panic to try and still him.

"Stop!" he pleaded in a reptilian, hissing voice, catching the back of 'Rilo's head before he gashed it open on a jagged rock. "Stop, you must stop, you must _ stop!"_

'Rilo just uttered as much of a scream as he could through his leather bindings, twisting in terror to get his gray, bared throat out of range of his captor's intimidating, pronged fangs. He couldn't help it—he started crying, and that caused the Argonian to leap back and begin pacing, worrying his nails with his teeth.

"I cannot do this, I cannot do this, it won't stop crying, Silk-For-Lips never told me that they cried, why does it cry, why does it cry, why does it—"

'Rilo tilted his head at just the right angle to get the leather gag out of his mouth. He gasped loudly, sucked in a breath of air that tasted of the swamp, then screamed out:

"Gold Man, help me!"

The Argonian took a stagger step, quivered, then knelt beside 'Rilo with a confused expression on his face. 'Rilo shied away from him, shaking in fright and praying for his life. "Here…" the creature began shakily, reaching out for the bindings on 'Rilo's wrists. "Here, now… no more screams, and I take them off, yes?" He looked hopeful. "Yes?"

"Why did you take me!" 'Rilo shouted back, mindless of the request. He thought back to Yfael, floating away from him down the Odai. He flinched; tears stung his eyes. 'Stupid Yfael… _stupid…'_

"Because I must!" the creature insisted, his dismay evident. Again, he reached for the bindings, and without hesitation, 'Rilo moved away. "I must take you, I must, Vermillio does not understand—"

"Don't talk about my father!" the boy shouted back in outrage. His fists clenched. "You don't know anything about my papa!"

"No, sir, no!" the Argonian persisted, and this time when he reached for 'Rilo's wrists, he grasped them firmly, and the boy could not twist away. His expression was pleading. "Soft-As-Grass does not speak of Vermillio's papa—Soft-As-Grass speaks of _ you!_ _You_ do not understand!"

'Rilo's expression was blank and without comprehension. He stared up at the scaled, reptilian face, and felt nothing but terrified wonder, and the vain wish to reach out and strike his captor with something sharp. Then, still crying silent tears, he begged, weeping, "What don't I understand?"

Soft-As-Grass took a steadying breath and removed his short sword from his hip; it was crusted with something, and 'Rilo grew sick with nausea as he recognized it. The Argonian brought the blade to the bindings on 'Rilo's wrists and begin to saw through, speaking shakily as he did so. "You must go to Silk-For-Lips, and he will explain. Soft-As-Grass cannot explain. Soft-As-Grass does not know, but he understands."

"How can you understand something if you don't know what it is!" 'Rilo accused venomously. As soon as the bindings were off of his wrists, he ripped himself free of Soft-As-Grass and tried to stand, but the twine that lashed his ankles together was stronger than he'd originally thought. He went tumbling back down to the ground, shouting in dismay, and then rolling down a steep slope. He glimpsed the thick, green bog once, smelt its overpowering reek of swamp decay, before he was suddenly immersed in it.

It was disgusting. Thick and all-consuming and black, and there was nothing living inside of it. He sank deeply for a time before he seemed suspended in the mixture, stuck in a cold, wet void that sapped the heat from his body and squeezed the oxygen out of his lungs. 'I want to go home!' he almost screamed, but caught himself at the last minute as he made the mistake of attempting an inhalation of breath. Bog liquid forced its way into his nostrils and clogged them, causing him to choke and gag and thrash as he hadn't on land. 'Oh Gods, I can't die here, I can't, this isn't _fair, _Yfael why'd you have to leave me like this, why aren't you here?'

Strong hands thrust themselves into the bog and grasped 'Rilo around his midsection. Terrified, 'Rilo struggled, but he went limp as soon as he felt the upward pull of the arms; they were tugging him towards the surface, towards air, towards oxygen. His freed hands moved thickly through the sludge and felt cold scales, just as the skin of his face felt the kiss of the humid, swampy air.

The Argonian was moving swiftly through the swamp, across logs, dodging through foliage, until he sprinted across pearl white sand and into the blue-green surf. He dumped 'Rilo into the water but kept a good grasp on him, to prevent the powerful tide from running away with him. 'Rilo floundered and scrambled to get his footing on the swirling sand underfoot, grabbing tightly to the reptilian hands that held onto the front of his shirt. He'd always hated the taste of salt water when he would accidentally swallow it while swimming with his family, or when he'd inhale it up his nose and later feels the sickening, salty trickle of the stuff as it dribbled down the back of his throat. Now, he couldn't get enough of it, couldn't get enough of the stuff into his mouth to wash out the sickness of the bog. He couldn't stand the way the gummy amalgamation clung to him like a disease, and despite himself, he started sobbing again; great tears of misery poured from his eyes, his hands trembled, and eventually Soft-As-Grass had to drag him onto the beach so that he wouldn't drown himself in the water.

'Rilo curled over onto his side and shook, crying into his hands while Soft-As-Grass went about sawing through the bindings on his ankles. When he felt the angry pressure on his skin loosened, he tugged his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, burying his face in his knees and curling into a fetal position. Soft-As-Grass remained crouched on the sand beside him. 'Rilo could glimpse the Argonian's brilliant topaz eyes regarding him, watching him; he looked smarter than a beast, but as naïve and innocent as a child.

Timidly, Soft-As-Grass extended a hand to 'Rilo; it jerked back a little, at first, when 'Rilo extended his back, but then gently, Soft-As-Grass was able to clasp the boy's hand and slowly pull him to his feet. 'Rilo struggled to maintain his balance; from what he could tell he hadn't been on his feet in a while, and when at last he stood straight and popped the discomfort out of his spine, his head swam.

"Vermillio must not be angry at Soft-As-Grass," the Argonian entreated feebly. Despite his superior height, he made himself lower than the Dunmer boy, twisting his scaly fingers together and letting his reptilian tail sway to and fro. "Vermillio must try to understand."

"I'm _not _Vermillio," 'Rilo corrected in a sniffling tone when he finally found the strength to speak; his voice shook, and he realized that he trembled not because he was afraid anymore, but because he was cold. "Vermillio is my papa—_I _am 'Rilo."

Soft-As-Grass blinked slowly, as if trying to understand. "…'Rilo," he tried hesitantly.

"Yeah, that's me," 'Rilo said, and he couldn't help it; he smiled. "I'm 'Rilo, that's right."

"But…" The Argonian looked confused, glancing back towards the mainland. "Silk-For-Lips told Soft-As-Grass to fetch… to fetch Vermillio. Son of Vermillio."

He ended up laughing a little, leaning down to brace himself on his knees and put himself on eye level with the Argonian. "No, you're right, I _am _Vermillio." Soft-As-Grass looked confused. "I'm Vermillio, but I'm named after my papa. So he and my mother call me 'Rilo, for short."

"For short?" Soft-As-Grass repeated, his confusion growing.

"It's a nick name," 'Rilo elaborated. "So that Mama can tell us apart."

"You do not look alike."

"No, but…" 'Rilo sighed and brought a hand up to run his fingers over his bald head; his scalp was positively _freezing. _"Look," he said at length. "Just call me 'Rilo, and know that I am _also _Vermillio, but that I prefer being called 'Rilo. Okay?"

"Ah." Soft-As-Grass gave a reptilian smile. "Soft-As-Grass understands." His head nodded a few times for emphasis.

'Rilo found himself about to smile in reply, when suddenly the memory of what Soft-As-Grass did to his friend leapt into the forefront of his mind. He stepped back, expression distrustful. "Why'd you kill Yfael?" he asked, angry again. "He was just gonna wake you up, to help you."

Soft-As-Grass' eyes widened, and his large ear flaps flattened against his skull. "Not kill, sir, never kill! Soft-As-Grass would never kill a child—only make him sleep, so he would not interfere."

"He was bleeding!" 'Rilo accused passionately, a hand gripping his side. "Right here! There was blood everywhere, you stabbed him!"

"But it would not kill him!" Soft-As-Grass insisted, reaching out for 'Rilo's hand again. "He will sleep for a time, yes, but he will not die. Float to shore, be found by family!"

"Or some freaky pervert who likes doing things to kids," 'Rilo pointed out stiffly, looking back in the direction of what he hoped was the Odai. He steeled his resolve. "I'm going back to find him, before someone _else _does."

"No!" Soft-As-Grass grabbed hold of 'Rilo's wrist and held it, trying to tug him in the opposite direction, down the shoreline. "No, no, 'Rilo must come! You must come with me, with Soft-As-Grass."

"'Rilo's not goin' _anywhere _with Soft-As-Grass!" 'Rilo said firmly, mimicking the Argonian's speech pattern. He twisted his arm around until he had enough leverage to free himself from the creature's grasp, stepping back from him quickly. "I'm goin' back to find Yfael."

He knew that if he were to run, Soft-As-Grass would have no trouble catching him. The Argonian moved with the fleetness of any land predator, and though 'Rilo doubted that the beast-man would hurt him, he would probably not hesitate to tie 'Rilo up again and drag him to wherever it was that this Silk-For-Lips person was. His only hope, he settled on, was to reason with him. To let Soft-As-Grass at least let him go back and find Yfael, to make sure he was okay, and maybe accompany him home.

Soft-As-Grass moved after him anxiously. "Silk-For-Lips waits, 'Rilo, we mustn't be late…"

"We won't be," 'Rilo promised, although he inwardly wondered just what it was he was promising himself away to. "We won't be late for Silk-For-Lips, but I'm not going to go _anywhere _ with you until I know my friend's okay."

Soft-As-Grass seemed to be weighing his options carefully, a sudden and uncanny intelligence coming into his topaz eyes. He shifted his slight weight from one reptilian foot to the other, the tip of his tail brushing the wet sand rhythmically. Then, as if coming to a decision, he nodded slowly. "Soft-As-Grass will go with you. We will find your Yfael, and take him home. Then go to Silk-For-Lips."

'Rilo nodded. "Then go to Silk-For-Lips," he echoed. For now, they would find Yfael.

He turned in the sand and begin walking back towards the swamp, feeling the constant presence of the Argonian always two steps behind him.

---


	8. Chapter 7

Dremora 

by Liz, "Thoreau"

Disclaimer: _Morrowind _is (c) to Bethesda Softworks, and I've no claim on anything other than the original characters mentioned. This story will, at some point, contain **slash** (that is, romantic situations involving two people of the same sex, **m/m **in this case). Don't read it if that bothers you.

Author's note: Another chapter I'm happy with! I like being able to flesh out this story, and this chapter gave me the perfect opportunity to do that, while not giving away too many secrets. Looks like 'Rilo is a lot more important than anyone had ever believed. :P

* * *

Chapter Seven

Greoth didn't particularly like Pelagiad, but Gerhard had chosen the Halfway Tavern as their meeting place, and so that was where Greoth went.

He was counting the coins he brought with him, and so Si'Rah reached over his head to push the door open. The two of them stepped into the inn, smelled the warm aroma of cooking food and cheap drink; it was crowded tonight, Greoth noticed, with soldiers from the fort and from further south. There was some sort of contest going on in the very middle of the common room. Two men—and one of them Greoth recognized as Edwin Biggs—were in the middle of a drinking game, and Greoth noted with some amusement that his little rookie lieutenant was losing. Badly.

"Si'Rah surmises that Biggs is a fool," the Khajiit chuckled.

"Greoth agrees," the Dunmer smiled. He clapped one hand to Si'Rah's shoulder, then headed further into the tavern.

Gerhard was leaning against the far wall, watching Biggs with a forced sour look on his face; in fact, he was struggling not to grin, and when Biggs missed his mouth entirely and poured mazte all down the front of his uniform, Gerhard laughed out right and joined in the raucous cacophony of sound with the rest of the men-at-arms. Greoth shared the laugh, but fell silent again, simply smiling. Human humor never managed to keep him interested for long.

He made it to the man's side and touched his shoulder. "We're here," he said.

Gerhard nodded. "Have a seat; I went ahead and ordered you both food. Hope you don't mind."

"Si'Rah has eaten," the Khajiit informed him, clearly not wanting to partake in the meal.

"I haven't," Greoth said with forced cheer; time to force down more filth and rubbish. He turned to his friend and offered him some coin. "Get us a room upstairs for the night. You can retire there, if you wish."

"Sounds appealing," came the slow, purring reply, and Si'Rah took the gold and made his way through the throng of drunks towards the bar.

Greoth made his way behind Gerhard towards their table. Sarafina was already seated, her chair leaned back against the wall and her legs crossed. She wasn't smoking, but a burning cigarette was resting in an ash tray near her mug. Greoth couldn't scent any alcohol in it, and steam rose from the top. He concentrated for a moment. Chamomile tea? Perhaps.

She smiled at him winningly as he took his seat. "Greoth," she greeted. "Good to see you again."

"And you," he said with a returning smile, offering out his hand. She took it, squeezed it, and then released. Greoth wasn't blind to her intention; Gerhard saw every minute of their personable exchange, and he seemed to think twice about taking a seat. He stewed angrily where he stood, before turning and stalking back towards the drinking contest. Biggs was just about through making a fool of himself; _ someone _had to take him out to sober him up.

Sarafina lifted her tea to her lips and sipped from it. "I assume that, since Gerhard called this meeting, that you have no evidence to put before us."

"I have evidence," Greoth said, "but it's all up here." He pointed to his head and grinned a bit. "I doubt you'd want me to go into what I've uncovered."

"It's more than what we have now."

Greoth hesitated, then admitted, "It isn't much. Just speculations mostly. If what I'm assuming is correct, then I'm even more lost than I was when I began. I'm sure you know where my patron stands—stood, when it came to the rights of the beast races, and of humans and lesser elves for that matter, here in Morrowind."

Sarafina nodded, then gestured for him to continue.

"I went back through Kurnok's records, trying to uncover whatever I could. Most of what I found was junk, but I found a few signed contracts with specific individuals that seemed to represent interventions. Such as… A man was going to be executed for a petty crime, and Kurnok struck a deal with his persecutors, and they let the criminal off with a lesser sentence. None of it was connected with any of the major criminal organizations that function in Balmora and other cities. It was just simple things, like stealing a loaf of bread from the market, or something of that ilk." He fell silent and tapped his fingers against his lips; he really had wanted Gerhard to hear this, but it looked like the Imperial man was too irritated with _something _to bother coming back.

Sarafina looked curious; her pleasant, simple mannerisms reminded Greoth of the sister he'd left behind in Cyrodiil. "You say interventions," she said, seeming to dwell on the words. "Perhaps he intervened at the wrong time?"

"That is what I am thinking," Greoth said heavily. He glanced up as a portly woman with trays of food arrived, placing the steaming, aromatic meals before them. Even though Gerhard had already paid, Greoth smiled his thanks and tipped her well. As soon as she was gone, he continued, "Kurnok Tor made it a habit of taking in charity cases—such as myself and my brother, for instance. Hopeless miscreants, the salt of society, whatever you wanted to call us. Lesser folk, basically. Anyway, I found one document that dealt with the prevention of a ceremonial killing."

"Of a criminal?"

"Of a _child," _Greoth said, and he tried not to let Sarafina's brief flash of horror and disgust get to him. He went on. "When you came to us yesterday with the name of Vermillio Lasase, you brought to mind a case that came before the Balmora city council several years ago. Surely you know the story."

"Of the Altmer and Tyls Lasase? Certainly. No one speaks of it anymore, though."

"With good reason." Greoth sighed. "I'm sure you've noticed by now that it is customary for the Dunmer people to, ah… 'cleanse'… their race, at certain times. Half-breeds are not tolerated. They are considered unclean, and to the priests of the Temple, their mere existence is an affront to Vivec and the gods."

"Ridiculous," Sarafina muttered. "Life is life, regardless of the blood in your veins."

Again, Greoth had to continue as though she hadn't spoken. "Kurnok Tor intervened, at this point, and managed to buy the child his life. I found, in a file labeled 'Vermillio,' several letters of correspondence between Tor and Tyls Lasase, in which she requested, asked, begged, and finally pleaded, throughout her pregnancy, that Tor take action on her behalf and help her keep her baby. In the final month, there was another correspondence between Tor and… others… who indubitably saw to it that Tyls and her child were protected." Greoth didn't want to let on that he recognized many of the names on Tor's list; many of them were members of the Morag Tong, and he would not out them.

Sarafina nodded and once again, let every piece of information given to her sink in. She'd finished her mug of tea, and with a slight nod to the 'tender, she was brought another. A bit of honey was added to the mixture to sweeten it. "So Kurnok Tor succeeded in preventing one grievous murder from occurring, and Tyls Lasase kept her child. I'm sorry, Greoth, but what you explain to me seems to be a story of triumph, not a murder mystery."

"That was ten years ago," Greoth pointed out heavily. "That all transpired before the child was even born, and I am certain that many more contracts were made that have either gone missing or were hidden intentionally so that they could not be found. In any case, I stumbled across something else while going through some of his more recent archives." This time, Greoth reached into an innocuous leather bag he'd brought along and removed a ledger. He opened it up to the middle and flipped a few more pages over, hunting for the correct date at the top of the old pages. Sarafina leaned forward to get a better look.

Then, "Here," he said suddenly, touching a finger to the date. He looked up at Sarafina, a grave expression on his face. "This is dated for five weeks ago."

"Three weeks before the murder," Sarafina murmured.

Greoth nodded, then looked down into the book. "Kurnok kept a careful record of all of his cases of 'intervention,' and he only let certain members of his house have a look at this ledger. I'm one of them, fortunately—otherwise I might never have discovered this piece of evidence. Look here." He placed his finger beneath a name, Yuleen. Then, across the page, the subject: Vermillio.

Down the page, there were five more identical entries in the ledger. All of them bore the same name, Yuleen, and the same subject, Vermillio.

Sarafina looked shocked. Her eyes rose back to Greoth's abruptly. "Are these letters in regard to Tyls' husband?" she asked.

"No," Greoth replied with a slow shake of his head. "Vermillio is her husband's name, yes. But their boy's name is Vermillio, too, I'm certain of it. Otherwise, why would Kurnok have an entire file devoted to the wrong name?" He suddenly reached into his bag again. "And look. More letters from Tyls, after the child's birth, expressing her, and I quote, 'gratitude for your willingness to ensure the survival of my only son, Vermillio Lasase. My husband and I are forever in your debt.'" He slipped the letter back into the folder and tucked it back into his satchel, along with the ledger.

Sarafina nodded, convinced. "So where are these letters from this Yuleen character?"

"Gone," Greoth said grimly, "and judging by the looks of the file that they were in, Kurnok didn't dispose of them. They were taken, likely the night of his murder."

"Why didn't he hide them better? Why didn't he lock them away?"

Greoth winced. "He used to. When Tiloth and I first came into Tor's service, he kept everything under lock and key. Recently, his eyes haven't been what they used to be, and I think his memory was beginning to go too. He couldn't remember all of the charms he put on things to keep them locked, and he couldn't always see the letters when he tried to break his own codes. I think he believed that, as no one had made any attempt on his records thus far, they would be safe." He smirked grimly and felt the sudden pang of grief in his chest as he recalled both his dead brother and dead patron simultaneously; two stinging lances through the heart. "What a mistake that was…"

They let the silence settle between them, instead listening to the rest of the bustle and noise of the tavern. Eventually, Gerhard seemed to get over himself, and he dragged a very sodden Biggs back in from outside; the lieutenant's head was absolutely drenched in water from where Gerhard had forcibly submerged him until he came up sputtering in sobriety. They reached the table, and Gerhard gave Biggs a shove into one of the chairs, before taking up his own.

"Where's my food?" Biggs asked sleepily, and Sarafina laughed fondly before scooting the Breton man's plate in front of him. Edwin Biggs blinked at it a time or two, before smiling. "Oh. There it is."

"It's not as though it has feet, Lieutenant," Gerhard said stiffly; he tore off a bit of bread and began sopping thick gravy up with it. "I doubt it went anywhere while you were gone."

"What's put you in such a lousy mood all of a sudden?" Sarafina snapped, startling Greoth out of the pleasant reverie he'd drifted into. "You were in such high spirits during the jaunt here, and now you're acting like some dog just pissed down the front of your cuirass."

"What put me in such a lousy mood, is that what you ask?" Gerhard retorted with the sort of tight smile that Greoth always saw on the captain's face. "I'll tell you what put me in such a lousy mood: realizing that I am going to have to finish this entire godforsaken meal with you at my table—_and then walk back to the fort with you afterwards!"_

"Charming!" Sarafina snarled right back. Greoth had the foresight to move swiftly to one side, before the Breton woman snatched up her tea, gave it one last, wistful look—before she splashed it across Gerhard's face, soaking him thoroughly.

He sputtered at her in wide-eyed shock, and all around them, those who had begun to watch their spectacle roared with laughter. Even Biggs, sodden as he was, gave a snorting, sniggering laugh and ended up spilling his mazte all across the table. Greoth smiled once, then got up to fetch a rag to clean up the mess.

Over his shoulder he heard:

"Damn you to the depths of every hell in existence, you _stupid _woman!" Gerhard roared.

"I hope your—"

"Sarafina!" Biggs exclaimed, shocked.

"—shrivel up and you are _ never _able to pass on your crass genetics to the next generation! Good night, Gerhard!"

Greoth was confident that any bandit on the road brave enough to challenge Sarafina tonight would be running back to his bandit camp with his tail between his legs, praying for the mercy of the gods. He smiled to himself and wondered if anyone else was as aware of the attraction between the two of them as he was. He was about to ask the portly woman behind the counter for a wash rag when the door to the tavern was flung open. The sheer force of it made Greoth start, looking up expecting to see some drunken, angry Nord come staggering in, demanding more drink. What he saw made him forget about the argument back at his table.

A Dunmer boy had staggered through the door; it was flung open because he had literally fallen into it, and now he leaned against it heavily, gasping for breath and trying hard to keep from falling to his knees. His hand was tightly clutching his left side, and Greoth knew that the dark liquid coating his fingers was not water. It was blood.

The boy met his eyes across the room and gave a piteous cry of pain, before he collapsed forward onto the hardwood floors and fell unconscious.

---


	9. Chapter 8

Dremora 

by Liz, "Thoreau"

Disclaimer: _Morrowind _is (c) to Bethesda Softworks, and I've no claim on anything other than the original characters mentioned. This story will, at some point, contain **slash** (that is, romantic situations involving two people of the same sex, **m/m **in this case). Don't read it if that bothers you.

Author's note: I knew this chapter was going to be especially important; this is the first time I have ever written as my shrouded villain Silk-For-Lips, but I think I managed to convey 'it' well enough. I also introduced an important character that probably won't be seen very often; he is a Redguard named Vance Mythos, and he and Greoth have a pretty bloody history together. I'm trying to bring elements of Greoth's Morag Tong past to the forefront of these events; they will be important later.

* * *

Chapter Eight

"Let him in."

From outside the thick wooden doors, Vance Mythos drew a slow breath, squaring his shoulders and schooling his face into a mask of calm as the door to the conference chambers was opened. Two narrow-faced, narrow-eyed Dunmer guards fixed him with their scrutinizing glare, studying him as he had not been studied since his initiation into the Dark Brotherhood. He met their gazes squarely, then diverted his eyes to the interior of the chamber and stepped inside.

It was a large, ovular chamber with a ceiling that vanished into the farthest reaches of a tree's trunk; there were no rafters. Stepping into the center of the room was like stepping into the middle of a stadium; the seats surrounded him on all sides, and men of all sorts of disreputable trades suddenly engulfed him. These were not the upstanding warriors that had sworn themselves into the service of the good and honorable Morag Tong; these were the throw-backs, the treacherous men who could not be trusted to keep their word, the harlots that used their bodies as a form of sultry temptation to lesser men. Vance found himself the origin of the circle, turning slowly around to meet the eyes of his brethren.

An ambiguous figure entirely encased in dark maroon robes caught his attention; the figure was seated at the pinnacle of the ovular chamber, and its chair was elevated slightly above the others, an intricate design that Vance had never seen before carved into the wood just above its head. The figure seemed to know that it had Vance's attention, because after merely a moment of staring, it drew itself up into what Vance presumed to be a standing position. It was tall, perhaps a head taller than a tall Redguard; Vance took a step backward, despite himself.

The figure chuckled, a decidedly velvety and dark sound. It grated with disharmony, but like a pleasurable dissonance, Vance found himself drawn in by it, guided closer as though a great magnetic force was located deep inside of this nebulous personage.

"Good to see you at last, Vance."

The voice was neither male nor female, but soft and delectable as sweet caramel, and Vance wondered why he had ever distrusted it. His smile was twitchy and uncertain; despite his sudden warmth to the figure, he refused to let himself be completely drawn in by it. Years in the service of the Dark Brotherhood taught him that things were never as they appeared to be. One could not rely on one's brothers-in-arms here as one could in the Morag Tong. This was a band of thieves, and there was no honor among them.

The figure, still cloaked in that thick maroon shroud, glided towards him. Vance could feel its slippery smile, and again he felt that grating sense of wrongness. He took another hesitant step back. "Do you know who I am, Vance?" the figure inquired almost pleasantly. For each step back the Redguard took, the figure took a corresponding one forward, never letting Vance get more than four paces away from it. Eventually, the Redguard stopped and let the nebulous shape approach, watching it with uneasy brown eyes.

"You're Silk-For-Lips, aren't you?" he ventured, ashamed of how his voice quivered.

The circle of thieves sniggered like imbeciles, but the figure turned to cast invisible eyes around the chamber, and all was silent. Then, it turned back to Vance. Again, he could feel the smile. "You are correct; such a bright boy. Such promise, such potential, it's a wonder the Morag Tong didn't snatch you up before we did."

'They almost did,' Vance nearly said, but stopped himself at the last minute. It was fear that had kept Vance from accepting the offer to join the Morag Tong, and fear that spurred him on to kill the assassin who had challenged him. He had not known Tiloth Omar for more than the ten minutes it took for the man to offer him the proposition, challenge him to battle, and then be slain. In a panic over the murder he'd just committed and fearing the full wrath of the Morag Tong brought down upon his back, he'd discarded Tiloth's corpse into the many canals beneath the Arena in Vivec, then taken shelter with the Dark Brotherhood. They were not nearly as ceremonious a group as the Morag Tong, but being affiliated with them gave him more security than he would have found without.

Silk-For-Lips glided closer; there seemed to be nothing corporeal about it at all, even the arm that extended itself out so as to clap three cold fingers around his jaw. The form turned Vance's jaw this way and that, examining him closely; the Redguard allowed it with a note of humiliation in his eyes. "You're shaking," Silk-For-Lips observed dully, seeming remotely displeased. "I do not tolerate fear in my ranks, Vance Mythos, and your outstanding record has proven that you do not tolerate it inside your heart either. Perhaps there has been a misunderstanding between my eyes and your nerves?"

"There must have been," Vance answered as quietly as he could manage. "I am not afraid, nor am I trembling from fear. I simply shake from excitement." A lie.

"You anticipate the job I have for you, then?" Silk-For-Lips inquired, nonplused.

"I…" His words tapered off.

Silk-For-Lips chuckled again, that satiny sound that reminded Vance of all his nightmares and dreams combined. "I sent another agent on a mission of much importance. Word has been sent back to me that half of his objective has been completed, but the other half has yet to be returned to me. It is this half that is of vital importance, and I am afraid that the mission is in jeopardy of being ruined entirely." There was a lengthy silence.

Vance shifted uncomfortably and wished he could see the eyes hidden inside that baleful shroud. "And what," he tentatively began, "is it that you would like me to do for you, sir?"

"I would like, Vance," Silk-For-Lips continued, "for you to locate our agent Soft-As-Grass and his asset, and then make certain that no one follows them to this location. If my sources are accurate, a small search party may be mustering in and around Balmora. Certain members of this party are… what would you call it…"

"A liability, sir?"

"Ah…" The creature made the sound like it had just quenched its thirst. "Yes. That is exactly what it is. And liabilities must be taken care of, mustn't they Vance, before they hinder us detrimentally."

Vance nodded, but stayed silent.

Around them, the shifty-eyed men and women of the Dark Brotherhood watched with large, luminescent eyes, hanging on every word of the discussion. Silk-For-Lips made a vague hand gesture, and one of the Dunmer guards advanced forward. "I'll speak more plainly, Vance. The Tor house has proven itself a nuisance in the past and present, and I have no doubt that in the future it will be just as much of one. It is time to punish the living members for interfering in our business for the last twenty years, and put a swift end to the family line."

"But the search party…"

"Sponsored by the Tor family, therefore affiliated with the Tor family." Silk-For-Lips accepted a scroll from the guard, who then turned around and, after flashing his menacing ruby gaze upon Vance, returned to his post. Silk-For-Lips unrolled the parchment and let its eyes rove over the text. When he spoke again, his voice was a low murmur. "Do away with them, too."

It wasn't fear of death that made Vance hesitate; he knew that despite the sneers and jeers he sometimes received for reacting tentatively to orders, his blade was the swiftest and most true of anyone else in the Dark Brotherhood. If challenged to a duel, he would win; there was no question. It was just… "Sir, isn't Greoth Omar affiliated with the Tor house?"

Silk-For-Lips regarded him neutrally. "This is common knowledge."

"…ah." Another pause, then, more confidently, "I will do as you request."

The ambiguous figure smiled, sending chills dancing along Vance's spine. "Good."

---


	10. Chapter 9

Dremora 

by Liz, "Thoreau"

Disclaimer: _Morrowind _is (c) to Bethesda Softworks, and I've no claim on anything other than the original characters mentioned. This story will, at some point, contain **slash** (that is, romantic situations involving two people of the same sex, **m/m **in this case). Don't read it if that bothers you.

Author's note: Yeah, another encounter between Greoth and Kehrik, although this one, once again, didn't have quite the impact I was hoping for. At the very least, it ends on a pretty mysterious note. :3 Their next chapter is going to be so much fun to write!

* * *

Chapter Nine

The boy had been sleeping for hours, and though the Healers had managed to mend the vicious wound on his side, the child refused to waken.

The crowd, for once, had been cleared out of the Halfway Tavern, and when Kehrik Tor pushed open the door to the pub, he was surprised to find one figure seated at the bar with nothing but an empty mug of mazte sitting before him. Greoth looked as though he had been sitting there for quite some time.

He didn't know why he thought taking a seat next to his childhood friend seemed so risky; men often sat at the left hands of their friends and spoke to them in confidential tones. It wasn't unheard of, and it certainly happened often in this tavern. Kehrik couldn't quite place why his heart skipped a beat as he slid quietly into the chair beside Greoth, or why all of the coy words he'd found so easily weeks before evaded him now. Perhaps that was a sign from his subconscious, a way of letting him know that whatever he was pursuing with Greoth was futile. He couldn't figure it out, for the life of him.

Greoth looked up from his mazte and startled. "Kehrik?" he asked in shock, then frowned in disapproval. "Did you walk here alone?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"By the Nine, did you even think to tell Shandrel where you were going?" Greoth cut him off, outraged. "Balmora is no short distance from here, you fool, it's a miracle you weren't eaten alive by a nix hound!"

"I'm not helpless, Greoth," Kehrik argued hotly. "Don't treat me like an invalid. I know how to use a sword."

"Sparring is one thing. Actually drawing blood is very different."

"And what would you know of that?"

Greoth gave him a sudden, piercing stare that made Kehrik feel very small and piteous in his chair; who was he to argue with a man who obviously had far more experience in the world than Kehrik could ever hope for? Who was he to question what it was Greoth did when he set off with Si'Rah each week to walk to Vivec, to disappear for months at a time only to return, sporting another scar, another tribal tattoo? Of course Greoth had drawn blood before.

For a moment, he could not believe that those hands that once lifted him high in the air as a boy could possibly wield a sword and send the blade plunging into the gut of a living, breathing, sentient creature. And just as quickly, there was no way he could doubt it.

His brows drew together, a look of frightened concern on his face. "Is there something you want to tell me, Greoth?" he prompted tentatively.

Greoth hesitated only for a moment. "No," he replied, turning his eyes away from Kehrik's to the mug of mazte before him. He drummed his long, slim fingers against the crockery, then brought it to his lips for a slow swig. He swallowed, sighed, and set the mug back down. "Wait here," he said in a colorless voice, pushing his chair back and getting to his feet. "I'll take you back to Balmora; let me just tell the others."

"I don't want to go back to Balmora," Kehrik protested, voice rising. "I want to talk to you about this case, about the missing children—"

"It's not something I want you getting mixed up in." Greoth was already moving towards the stairs. Even if he had followed, Kehrik knew that Greoth wouldn't have heard him out. He was as stubborn as Kurnok Tor sometimes. He went up the stairs and was soon out of Kehrik's line of vision.

Left alone, Kehrik suddenly realized how tired he was. Walking long distances at a swift, clipping pace is a surefire way to wear oneself down to nothingness, and without adrenaline to keep him awake and fuel his system, Kehrik wanted only to slouch down in his chair and fall asleep. The few remaining bar patrons were seated around another table playing a game of chance; Kehrik's eyes traveled to their little gathering, resting upon them. His ears pricked to their conversation.

Presently, Greoth came down the stairs again. He hadn't been gone for long, five minutes or so; he'd taken the time to don his armor and make certain he had his fierce-looking jinksword at his hip. Kehrik got to his feet and meticulously smoothed the wrinkles out of his fine garments. "Well?" he demanded.

"I'm taking you home," Greoth answered with narrowing eyes, pointing towards the door. "Don't even try arguing with me. You're mother's going to have a fit as it is when she wakes up and finds your bed empty. Did you even think about how this might affect her, so soon after your father's murder?"

Kehrik bit his tongue and kept his silence; he hadn't thought about his mother at all, only about following Greoth and keeping out of sight. He was just so _frustrated, _being left behind constantly when he had every right to participate in Greoth's covert operations as his own father had. Damnit all, Kurnok was _dead! _By right, Kehrik should be acting in Kurnok's stead, not confined to his elegant bedchambers with guards posted on his veranda and outside his door at all hours of the day. Jutting his chin out and gritting his teeth, Kehrik walked smoothly towards the door, opened it, and stalked out into the night.

It was darker out than he'd originally noticed, and the clouds rolling in over the stars looked thick and ominous; they bespoke rain and storms. Kehrik stood under the overhanging roof and waited for Greoth as he paid, rethinking his actions and wondering at his stupidity; what had he been _thinking, _walking this entire way from Balmora without a guard? Suddenly, every shadow even in the little village of Pelagiad held bandits and vampires, and the dancing phantoms cast by the flicker of hand-held torches taunted him like demonic clowns. Kehrik shrank back towards the door and moved his hand to the hilt of his decorative rapier; he'd never struck anything with it in his life. What a beautiful, useless weapon it was.

Greoth opened the door and stepped outside after him, not bothering to look at him. "Let's go," he said gruffly, heading out into the main thoroughfare. Kehrik followed close at his heels, suddenly feeling very stupid indeed for wandering alone—and now the talk he'd been hoping to have with Greoth was definitely not going to take place. Not while Greoth was so angry with him.

He attempted to make amends. "I'm sorry for putting you out like this," he ventured hopefully, quickening his pace so that he walked abreast Greoth; he was already growing tired from his friend's long, striding gait. Greoth wasn't even breathing hard.

"You _should_ be sorry," Greoth berated him with a narrow-eyed glare. "Because of your little misadventure, I am losing ground in this case. I hope it was worth it, Kehrik."

"It was," Kehrik answered quietly, crossing his arms over his chest and falling sullenly silent as they walked. 'At least you're talking to me now.'

For the most part, the road between Pelagiad and Balmora was flourishing with plant and animal life, a veritable alchemist's paradise; herbs and flowers of all types sprouted up along the path, catching Kehrik's eye even in the darkness. What little light was available played across the petals of the blossoms and glittered like little winking eyes on little pools of moisture on the rocks. The road was long and steep in some places, but the two of them encountered no obstacles—other than a scrib scuttling along the bottom of the foyada just outside of Moonmoth Legion Fort. By the time they were approaching Balmora, the grayness of dawn was slowly working its way across the sky, and when they walked through the city gates, the mugginess of the day was completely upon them. They were hardly ten paces from the Tor manor when fierce sheets of rain were pummeling the concrete beneath their feet and, inevitably, them as well.

They hurried inside the manor, already soaking wet by the time the door was securely closed behind them. Kehrik's mood was as sour as a mudcrab's at low tide; his robes were soaked through, muddy and very likely ruined. His hair was a black, matted mess against his skull, and his ears were so numb that he was starting to think he'd lost feeling in them altogether. He glared angrily around the interior of the den, hunting for some sign of life from the servants or perhaps his mother or other tenants, but there was nothing; the house was completely asleep, everyone still tucked into their beds for the night. Like as all, Shandrel wasn't even aware of his little trip to Pelagiad.

"You should do something about those wet things," Greoth said with a vague hand gesture, and Kehrik was so startled by his voice that he literally gave a jump, turning quickly to regard his friend. Greoth hadn't spoken a word to him during the entire journey.

"As should you," he agreed, heading up the stairs in the direction of his sleeping chambers. Greoth followed behind him at a distance. Kehrik was about to turn down the hall towards his room when Greoth's hand on his shoulder abruptly stopped him. Confused, he turned to regard the man, but found Greoth's gaze focused further down the corridor, at the door to Kurnok Tor's office. It was open, and someone was inside. The only key to the office was in Greoth's possession. Whoever was inside the room now, entered it without anyone's permission.

Kehrik suspected that the mystery as to how the lock was tripped from the inside was about to be solved.

---


	11. Chapter 10

Dremora 

by Liz, "Thoreau"

Disclaimer: _Morrowind _is (c) to Bethesda Softworks, and I've no claim on anything other than the original characters mentioned. This story will, at some point, contain **slash** (that is, romantic situations involving two people of the same sex, **m/m **in this case). Don't read it if that bothers you.

Author's note: I haven't written a chapter from Gerhard's perspective in some time, so I figured it was high time to write from the POV of my favorite arrogant Imperial captain. Greoth has gone off to escort Kehrik back to Balmora, and while he is gone, the Dunmer boy who had stumbled into Pelagiad wakes up. This is where Yfael's adventure, without 'Rilo, really gets started.

Don't forget to give me C/C about this story. :3 I really like hearing what you have to say.

* * *

Chapter Ten

Gerhard sulked in the back of the cramped room as the others blustered around the Dunmer boy's bed, crowding the Healer despite his many assurances that yes, he was qualified with both the Mage's Guild and the Temple, that yes, he was well aware of what he was doing, and no, Lieutenant Biggs, a cure for a hang-over is not available just yet. Gerhard studied his boots and returned each of Sarafina's casual glances with a seething glare; her remark about his 'family jewels' had not yet been forgiven.

Si'Rah seemed to be the only source of sentient reason in the room; Biggs was still a partially drunken mess, and speaking with a _woman _about manly matters just wouldn't do. The Khajiit male was leaning against one window, watching the entrance to the village with keen topaz eyes. Gerhard joined him with a tense sigh.

"Think this is one of the missing lads?" he inquired gruffly.

The Khajiit nodded his head slowly. "Si'Rah is beginning to believe so; yes, Captain Tens."

"Mm." Gerhard crossed his arms over his chest and glared down his nose; the inhabitants of the village seemed a little restless tonight. Lights were on in houses when they should have been put out for the night. Evidently the disturbance in the tavern was enough to keep the village up and running for a few more hours. Gerhard didn't doubt that it would escalate to an altercation unless some explanation was given as to why a small boy collapsed in a bloody heap on the floor of a tavern of good repute.

The only problem was, Gerhard didn't have any answers. Not yet anyway. And the one man necessary to ask the right questions had just gallivanted off back to Balmora to escort a wayward nobleman back to his bedchambers.

This situation could be slanted in his favor, Gerhard mused distantly, tilting his head to the side. It wouldn't be hard for Gerhard himself to steal Greoth's glory; after all, the shady Dunmer warrior hadn't needed very long to fall from Gerhard's high esteem. He concealed far too much from his companions, and concealment did _nothing, _in Gerhard's opinion, to further the mission. Concealment can present later roadblocks if not all the information is forked over at the right time. Men-at-arms relied on accurate and reliable information on the field of battle to ensure a proper victory or retreat, and with nothing to sink his teeth into, Gerhard was beginning to grow impatient. His eyes continued traveling over to the boy on the bed and the crowd surrounding him.

"Skinny," Si'Rah commented.

"What?" Gerhard asked, blinking at the Khajiit oddly.

Si'Rah gestured to the boy on the bed. "He is skinny," he continued, that slow, purring drawl dragging the words out again. "All Dunmer children are skinny to Si'Rah. Si'Rah speculates that Dunmer parents wean children off of mother's milk and onto piety and severity, and nothing else." He bared his fangs in a cat-like grin. "Such a diet makes for skinny kits. It is a small wonder that this one had so much blood in his body to be lost."

"Farmers don't make enough money to put bread on the table anyway," Gerhard nodded his agreement. He studied the boy's lax, unconscious features; the innocence there tugged at Gerhard's heartstrings. "Poor lad," he murmured in a private undertone.

"Very poor," Si'Rah agreed.

The Khajiit was about to continue, when the boy on the bed gave a strangled sound of coming back to wakefulness. Immediately, both Gerhard and Si'Rah lurched forward, crossing the room in two strides to stand at the bed, leaning over it.

Sarafina was applying a cold cloth to the boy's face, but when he whimpered and tried to push her hand away, she stepped back somewhat. She looked up to Gerhard as though looking for help; a strange feeling passed over him that he couldn't quite place, but he didn't have the time to dwell on it just then. He pushed it to the back of his mind to think about later.

The boy's deep, rose eyes slipped open slowly, groggily; he was incredibly lethargic and looked very sick to Gerhard's eyes, as though he had caught some terrible chill. The boy gave another whimper of discomfort and tried to curl away from the people surrounding him.

The Healer seemed to have the most placating affect on him. The elderly Altmer seated himself on the bed beside the boy and touched his shoulder. "Son?" he inquired gently. When the boy didn't stir, he squeezed his shoulder the slightest bit. "Son, you needn't be afraid. These are good people you have about you. We would never want to hurt you."

"That's what all humans say," the boy whispered, frightened. "That's what 'Rilo says _all _humans say, but really they don't like us Dunmer, and they chop us up into little pieces when they get the chance." He pulled himself across the bed under the covers to be closer to the only elf in the room, looking uneasily to Gerhard, Biggs, and Sarafina. "You just can't trust a human."

Gerhard scowled and muttered to Sarafina, "Typical Dunmer prejudice."

She replied coolly, "He's only a boy, Gerhard."

The Altmer just chuckled and settled one of his frail arms around the boy's shoulders, giving him a comforting hug. "Come now, lad, these people won't hurt you. They _helped _ you. You were very sick."

"Looked pretty gruesome," Biggs commented, his words lightly slurring together. The boy looked up at him, terrified, and clutched to the Altmer's arm. Si'Rah cleared his throat and nudged Biggs in the side, quietly inquiring as to whether or not he'd like to have a cigarette outside. The two of them left the room.

Sarafina smiled as gently as she could and sat down on the bed across from the Healer. She offered one of her slim hands out to the boy and tilted her head to the side; Gerhard couldn't understand why the boy continued to shrink away from her gentleness and kindness. Had _he _been the injured one on the bed, he would most certainly have welcomed her soothing affection… Where on earth was that train of thought headed? He checked it sharply. 'Soothing affection. Hmph. Not from _that _ wench.'

"I'm Sarafina Wenjo," Sarafina introduced herself with a little smile, keeping hand extended to the boy. "I'm the publican down at Moonmoth Fort. I'm pretty new to this area. What about you?"

The boy looked uneasily between Sarafina's hand and her eyes, seeming to mull something over in his head; his brown hair was tousled and in dire need of washing, large mats and tangles visible, along with what looked like, to Gerhard, seaweed. Finally, he spoke, rubbing a hand uncertainly along his other arm. "Yfael. I live near the Dren plantation, with my mama and papa."

"That must be a very lovely area to live in," she smiled; the boy still hadn't taken her hand, but at least he was talking to her. She withdrew it and used it instead to support her chin, peering through her red fringe at Yfael. "You mind if we ask what happened to you, Yfael?"

The boy was immediately suspicious again, shrinking back from her into the elderly Altmer. "Who's askin'?" he demanded with a frown.

"Just us," Sarafina said with a gesture around the room. Gerhard shifted a little closer and examined the boy, hoping his gaze wasn't as sharp as he felt it was.

Yfael chewed at his lower lip and moved his eyes from the Altmer Healer, to Sarafina, and then finally to Gerhard. He sat very still as he watched the captain, and Gerhard thought he saw a glimmer of recollection in the boy's eyes, as though Yfael _knew _him. It didn't make any sense; Gerhard couldn't recall a time when he willingly associated with children, and even when he had forcibly been in their presence, Yfael's face didn't stand out in his memory.

The boy spoke. "Me 'n 'Rilo were gonna go fishing… I mean, I know we're not supposed to slip out that late at night or anything, but it's _just _the Odai, and it's not like there were supposed to be any bandits out or anything. So we met up near the saltrice fields at his house, and then walked together to the river."

At his silence, Sarafina prompted gently, "Then what happened?"

Yfael squirmed a bit; his face was awash with guilt. "We were walkin' along the shore, and then I saw this… thing… curled up on the other side of the river. I thought it was a dragon or something, 'cause it was kind of big and scaly and had a lizard-looking head. 'Rilo says it wasn't a dragon at all; he says it was one of those lizard people… what're they called…"

"Argonians?" Gerhard suggested.

"Yeah, them," Yfael nodded, then continued. "So, it wasn't a dragon at all, like I said, it was an—" He said the word very slowly, as thought it proved difficult to pronounced, "—Argonian. He looked real sad and lonely, curled up under one of those saltrice sacks. Y'know, the real uncomfortable, itchy ones that don't make good blankets at all, but all the homeless people seem to have? Why don't you Imperials give the homeless people better stuff to sleep with anyway? It gets cold somethin' terrible sometimes."

Gerhard smirked to himself. 'Out of the mouths of babes.'

Sarafina had a similar expression on her face, but nodded to Yfael all the same. "I'll discuss it with my superiors, Yfael. Why don't you finish your story for us?"

Yfael hesitated, then spoke again, his voice softer, grave. "'Rilo told me not to wake it up, but I didn't see what good could come out of just leavin' him there. I thought he might need help or something, so I swam across to try and wake 'im up…" He tapered off into silence and bit down on his lower lip, looking as though, quite suddenly he might start crying.

Sarafina reached out to touch Yfael's cheek, and this time the boy didn't shrink away from her. He just sniffed weakly and forced himself to continue, his voice straining against tears. "He… he woke up, an' he cut me with his sword, and shoved me into the water. 'Rilo was right up behind me in the water, tryin' to keep me from getting too close, and so when… when I was in the water, there wasn't _nothin' _ keeping that lizard-thing from him. And it grabbed him, and hit him over the head with… with this end—" He reached out to touch the hilt of Gerhard's sword, "—of his sword. I tried to swim back, but I couldn't stay awake, and when I woke up, I was still bleeding, but I couldn't seem to die. And it hurt, and I didn't know where that thing took 'Rilo, and I'm afraid he's _ dead—"_

Sarafina's maternal instincts kicked in as the distraught boy slowly worked himself into hysterics. She reached across the blankets and enveloped him in her arms, and he collapsed against her willingly, crying his heart out from both pain and anxiety. Gerhard felt vexed for a moment, that the boy couldn't control his emotions long enough to give a detailed report as to who his attacker was and where he might be now. But he was, as Sarafina had pointed out, only a boy. One could only expect so much out of him, and he had definitely told them a good deal tonight.

When Yfael had exhausted himself through his tears and fallen asleep in Sarafina's arms, she gently laid him back down and tucked the blankets around him. She and the Healer stood up and went about the room dimming the lights. "We should contact his parents," she murmured to Gerhard. "At least they can sleep soundly tonight."

"What of the other boy?" Gerhard asked.

Sarafina just shook her head slowly, a sorrowful expression on her pretty features. "I think he might be…" She couldn't say it.

Gerhard construed her meaning successfully enough and nodded, a gravity in the action that saddened him. Together, they looked down to the boy on the bed and wondered if, in his dreams, his friend was safe and sound.

---


	12. Chapter 11

Dremora 

by Liz, "Thoreau"

Disclaimer: _Morrowind _is (c) to Bethesda Softworks, and I've no claim on anything other than the original characters mentioned. This story will, at some point, contain **slash** (that is, romantic situations involving two people of the same sex, **m/m **in this case). Don't read it if that bothers you.

Author's note: For some reason, this chapter just _did not _want to get written. I started out writing it from Greoth's perspective, then didn't like where that was going and erased it, only to start all over again on it from 'Rilo's--then I erased that too. I even made a half-assed attempt at writing it from Si'Rah's perspective, but I gave up there too. I was browsing through some of the books I've come across in the actual Morrowind game, and then I came upon something called _Dremora's Letter_, and that kind of inspired me with where to go. This chapter is written from Vance's perspective; during his voyage from Mournhold to Vvardenfell, he encounters a very bizarre Altmer man by the name of Cirondel, a man who, strangely enough, has business in the region of the world where Vance himself is headed...

Don't forget to give me C/C about this story. :3 I really like hearing what you have to say.

* * *

Chapter Eleven

DREMORA'S LETTER

How you should know us.

DEATH, DEFEAT, AND FEAR

We do not die. We do not fear death.

Destroy the Body, and the Animus is cast into Darkness. But the Animus returns.

But we are not all brave.

We feel pain, and fear it. We feel shame, and fear it. We feel loss, and fear it. We hate the Darkness, and fear it.

The Scamps have small thoughts, and cannot fear greatly.

The Vermai have no thoughts, and cannot fear.

The Dremora have deep thoughts, and must master fear to overcome it.

THE CLAN BOND

We are not born, we have not fathers and mothers, yet we have kin and clans.

The clan-form is strong. It shapes body and thought.

In the clan-form is strength and purpose.

THE OATH BOND

We serve by choice. We serve the strong, so that their strength might shield us.

Clans serve by long practice, but practice may change.

Dremora have long served Dagon, but not always so.

Practice is secure when the oath-bonds are secure, and trust is shared.

When oath-bonds are weak, there is pain, and shame, and loss, and Darkness, and great fear.

HOW WE THINK ABOUT MAN

Perhaps you find Scamps comic, and Vermai brutish.

How then do you imagine we view you humans?

You are the Prey, we are the Huntsmen.

The Scamps are the Hounds, the Vermai the Beaters.

Your flesh is sweet, and the chase is diverting.

As you may sometimes praise the fox or hare, admiring its cunning and speed, and lamenting as the hounds tear its flesh, so do we sometimes admire our prey, and secretly applaud when it cheats our snares or eludes pursuit.

But, like all worldly things, you will in time wear, and be used up. You age, grow ugly, weak, and foolish. You are always lost, late, or soon.

Sometimes, the prey turns upon us and bites. It is a small thing. When wounded or weary, we fly away to restore. Sometimes a precious thing is lost, but that risk makes the chase all the sweeter.

MAN'S MYSTERY

Man is mortal, and doomed to death and failure and loss.

This lies beyond our comprehension—why do you not despair?

( Dremora's Letter © Bethesda Softworks)

Vance bartered passage aboard a slender merchant vessel bound to Ebonheart from Mournhold the night after his meeting with Silk-For-Lips. The weather was working against him; overhead he could see, towards the west, a slow building of dark clouds, the thunderheads so black and thick that they extended up into the highest reaches of the atmosphere. He stood on the deck and leaned against the railing near the bow of the ship, feeling the spray of the ocean every time the vessel plowed its stately way through a cresting wave; moving through the inky waters alongside the hull, Vance wondered if perhaps what he glimpsed were not dreugh, hoping to catch scraps of meat chucked into the water, but serpents. He'd heard rumors that the large creatures were no longer isolated off the coast of High Rock, but were beginning to manifest themselves in some of the lesser bodies of water around the world.

He feared encountering Greoth Omar; the underground world of assassins regarded him with both fear and eminence, and although Vance knew that his blade could stand against just about any member of the Dark Brotherhood… Greoth Omar was unknown territory. Rather like a child playing with a venomous snake, Vance already found himself nervously exhilarated, imagining a combat situation with the Dunmer assassin, touching blades with him, falling into that deadly dance with him where only one man would remain standing once the movement was over. What would it be like to challenge Tiloth's brother? Would he even possess half of the skill that Tiloth had?

If it came down to it, Vance knew that he could, with clean conscience, slay Greoth. After all, neither of them were innocent men. Both of them had the blood of others so deeply saturated into their palms that one more death wouldn't make any difference. Killing the young heir to the Tor fortune, however…

Vance remembered being in Balmora some years ago, when Kurnok Tor was negotiating with the Tribunal Temple for the life of Tyls Lasase's child, and he found that he could remember precisely how the young Dunmer Kehrik Tor looked. Lithe and slender, wiry as all boys were, and eager to explore and learn everything. He trailed Greoth like a tame rat, idolizing him, never far from his side. Vance winced; how could he kill a _child?_

'He's not a child anymore,' he reminded himself sternly, but it did not do any good. He did not have a writ for this assassination, and so it was murder, just as the murder of Kurnok Tor had been underhanded and poorly done. Soft-As-Grass was not an assassin by trade, Vance recalled. He was a petty thief, easily manipulated and made to believe simple things with little or no effort.

His reverie was disturbed by a limber Bosmer at his side; the slim man touched his arm. "Captain wants everyone below deck, sir," he said.

Vance nodded. "All right." He turned his back on the sea and walked with a smattering of over men and women of various races towards the door that led down below.

He nearly collided with a tall Altmer man of humble garb.

"Ah, forgive me—"

"Watch where you're going," Vance muttered callously, not in the mood to mind his manners around strangers. He grasped the door by its handle, wrenched it open roughly, and clamored down the ladder; the hold smelled of fish and salt water.

Suspended from hooks attached to the ceiling were hammocks that hung too low to the floor for Vance's liking, and barely fifteen feet away from them was a bar tended by a busty Nordic woman who caught his eye and flashed him a smile. There were other men already seated on creaking chairs at the bar, others surrounding round tables, engaged in games of chance. Vance felt himself flushing with anxiety; he stuck out like a sore thumb amongst all of these Nords and Imperials and Bretons, a lone Dunmer amongst them. He knew that his dark skin caused eyes to linger on him longer than they would on another; then again the Altmer emerging behind him drew just as many queer glances, with his amber flesh and wild, willowy white hair.

"Can I get you gents something to drink?" the Nordic woman smiled invitingly, lounging on the bar so that all of her wares—and not merely those available for eating—were made readily visible. "I think I've got something for everyone down here—"

"That so, missy?" one of the Nords guffawed, and his companions roared with raucous laughter.

"Keep yer grubby paws off o' me wife!" roared another Nord from the other side of the bar, and he bared his teeth through a beard so thick that Vance doubted it was possible to remove all of the food particles undoubtedly caught within.

Ignoring the argument to the best of his ability, he took a seat at the far end of the bar and returned the woman's smile; he said nothing to the Altmer who sat beside him. "Just mazte," he said.

"All right," she smiled enchantingly, turning her vivid blue eyes to the Altmer. "And yourself, sir?"

"Flin." He slid a large sum of money across the bar and placed it discreetly in her upturned palm.

The woman's eyes were wide and large, moving from the coin in her grasp to the Altmer before her. "Sir, I can't possibly make change for this—"

"Keep it," he replied. "I've no use for it."

"I… all right…"

She moved away staggeringly to fetch their orders, and Vance turned suspicious eyes to the Altmer next to him. The tall man sat very still, leaning on the counter on his elbows, his long, slender fingers serving as a casual rest for his pointed chin. He wore dark, maroon robes that looked as though they had, at one point in time, been of luxurious value, with faded embroidery around his thin wrists and throat and down the front of his chest. A belt was cinched at his even thinner waist; he wore worn leather boots.

Sensing his stare, the Altmer's vivid amber eyes opened, and slid to meet Vance's gaze. Silence followed. Then:

"I'm sorry," Vance apologized awkwardly. "For what I said on deck."

The Altmer smiled. "I am not easily offended, so there is no need for an apology." He moved one slim hand out from under his chin and held it out to Vance. "You look as though you could use a friendly ear, serjo."

"You have no idea," Vance replied with a grim smile, clasping the offered hand and giving it a quick shake. "Vance Mythos," he introduced himself.

The Altmer seemed to muse for a moment before offering up his own name. "Cirondel," he said, and Vance couldn't quite figure out why the man appeared so amused by his own name.

"Good to meet you," Vance said, putting the thought out of his mind for the moment. "What business do you have in Vvardenfell?"

"Settling some familial affairs," Cirondel answered. "Tricky business, but I believe I may be able to sort through this without any sort of assistance from my attorney."

"Inheritance? Something of that nature?"

"Something along those lines, yes. I'd avoid going back if I could; Mournhold offers many more opportunities for Altmer than other cities in Vvardenfell do. I suppose I'll head to Balmora first."

"That's where I'm likely to end up first myself," Vance said, finding himself smiling before he was even aware of it. He felt a surge of sadness after he noticed; once he left this ship, he would have to part ways with this fellow, and it was doubtful they'd meet again. Vance always discouraged himself from making acquaintances that he might be tempted to continue, because there was always a chance that during his work for the Brotherhood, he would die, and the Brotherhood was not as thorough at tying loose ends as the Morag Tong was.

Cirondel seemed intrigued by his sudden silence, but other than the slightly cryptic smile on his face and the subtle tilt of his head, there was nothing inquisitive about his stare. Vance returned it without a word, and only looked away because the Nordic woman had returned to the bar with his mazte and Cirondel's flin. She still couldn't bring herself to say anything to him, but the grateful smile on her face said enough. Cirondel had, more than likely, given her enough money to make as many purchases for her little bar for the rest of the year, and then some.

"Thank you," he said to her, and Cirondel smiled his agreement. The woman just tinged red and hurried off to deal with another customer.

They drank in companionable silence together, the way good friends do when they've run out of things to discuss and simply choose to cherish each other's company before parting ways. Vance sat slightly angled towards Cirondel, whose clear amber eyes had become fixated on some distant point that only he could see. They didn't speak, and the minutes passed by until, without realizing it, an entire hour had gone by. The night was well upon them now, and sleep was tugging at the corners of Vance's eyes. He had no reason to stay awake, really; he was safe on board the ship, and besides, Cirondel seemed to be that ethereal sort of man who could detect danger if it was nearby. Surely if there was something amiss, Cirondel would let him know?

Vance caught himself at that. Since when had he begun relying on the aid of a stranger to keep his own hide safe?

But, looking at the Altmer again, it was difficult _not _to trust Cirondel. His presence was quiet and immense, psychologically if not physically. Without overtly demanding it, his sheer complacence seemed to command a great deal of respect and politeness; even the rowdy Nords seated further away from them made no move to hassle him. Vance guessed that, as he himself now appeared to be friends with Cirondel, he would not have to endure their drunken harassment either.

"Perhaps you should sleep," Cirondel suggested, though as far as Vance could tell, the man had not even looked away from his singular point on the wall. His flin was only a quarter of the way consumed.

"I think I will," Vance decided, pushing away from the bar tiredly; most of the other tenants were asleep, already swinging lazily in their hammocks with blankets tugged over their bodies. Vance found a vacant hammock, crawled wearily into it, and was asleep before his head even struck the pillow.

He slept the deepest sleep of his life, and for once was not ravaged by dreams of his horrific murders and the bodies of his dead family.

---


	13. Chapter 12

Dremora 

by Liz, "Thoreau"

Disclaimer: _Morrowind _is (c) to Bethesda Softworks, and I've no claim on anything other than the original characters mentioned. This story will, at some point, contain **slash** (that is, romantic situations involving two people of the same sex, **m/m **in this case). Don't read it if that bothers you.

Author's note: A short chapter, yes, but I like the way it turned out. I'd tried to make it longer, but ending it where I chose to seemed to be the best decision, in retrospect. We discover the connection between Fetcher, the Gold Man, and the mysterious Altmer, Cirondel. :3 Not that most of you hadn't probably figured it out already.

Don't forget to give me C/C about this story. :3 I really like hearing what you have to say.

* * *

Chapter Twelve

"Where are you, 'Rilo?"

"Campin' somewhere. I dunno, it's by the water. Soft-As-Grass likes being by the water."

"Is it a river, do you know?"

"Yeah, I think it's a river. Maybe the Odai, I don't know. He said he'd take me to where Yfael is. Why do we have to talk about this?"

"No reason. How do you feel?"

"Hungry. And dirty. Soft-As-Grass doesn't cook his food, and I'm not gonna eat raw mudcrab meat."

"Why have you been unable to bath? You have river water nearby."

"Something's going on, 'cause all of the slaughterfish are coming up the Odai from the sea. They didn't used to, but Soft-As-Grass says that they must be spawning or something. Gold Man, what's spawning?"

"Some other time, 'Rilo. In what direction are you headed?"

"But I wanna know about… oh, fine. I think we're headed towards Pelagiad, but I'm not sure. Could be anywhere."

"All right. Well, I think you've stayed here long enough; it's time for you to get some real sleep, so you won't be sluggish on the road, hm?"

"Okay… Can I come back tomorrow night?"

"If you feel up to it, feel free. Good night, 'Rilo."

"Good night, Gold Man."

* * *

Cirondel opened his eyes and stared at the hull of the ship; it was listing at anchor, and he could hear the curious taps of dreugh claws against the wood. He sat up and raked his fingers through his fine hair, then glanced furtively around at his sleeping shipmates. The Nords from the night before were passed out all over the place, some half swinging in their hammocks, some sprawled unconscious on the floor, others still slumped at the bar, their mazte and shein spilt around them.

Dozing in the hammock beside him was the Dunmer man he had spoken to the night before; he looked far too young to be out on his own, Cirondel thought, perhaps no older than his teenage years. He had the muscle of a man slightly older than that, the beginnings of a goatee at his chin, and wild brown hair that stuck up in curious angles all over the top of his head. He was still asleep, but his brows were dipped into tight furrows, his lips pulled into a small, taut line, and his shoulders tense. Cirondel suspected a nightmare, but did not slip into the man's dreams to verify. He had no place there.

His place was on the dirt roads of the West Gash, racing after Vermillio Lasase and his captor. His place was with the son he had abandoned ten years before.

Cirondel, "Fetcher," would not ignore his duty as a parent now.

He got to his feet and quietly got his meager belongings together, then placed a gentle hand on Vance's brow. The young man flinched in his sleep, but gradually the lines of stress on his face vanished, and his body relaxed into the hammock. Satisfied, Cirondel turned his back on Vance and quietly ascended the stairs to the deck.

Ebonheart was a pale shadow on the moonlit horizon, but until the crew hoisted the anchor, it would draw no nearer. Cirondel glanced around himself; the captain was in his own quarters asleep, and the only crewmen on deck was the Dunmer minding the helm and the Bosmer in the crow's nest, keeping a watchful eye out for anything dangerous. Cirondel sighed; he did not want to perform magic so close to those who might bear some sensitivity to it, but it was imperative that he get to land now—he couldn't afford to wait for the ship to reach the wharves.

A simple illusion spell veiled him from the prying eyes of the Bosmer watchman, and a silencing charm kept his levitation incantation from being heard. He swept up into the air, quickly twenty meters above the crow's nest, humble robes flapping as wind rushed against him. Cirondel struggled to maintain control of himself, pitting his strength against that of the wind, and then, steeling himself for what would inevitably be a struggle, forced himself through the air towards the shore.

Levitation is not easy when one is forced to travel a great distance very fast over water. The ocean is not smooth, and winds move across it that do not move across land; there are sudden updrafts to be dealt with, surprising gusts that catch the spell-caster off guard, and even the occasional encounter with a cliff racer. Cirondel passed within a hair's reach of one, unable to turn away at the last minute, but the creature did not sense him; the Altmer breathed a silent prayer of thanks to the Tribunal, before he found himself approaching the docks. He touched down lightly, sighing out hard from exhaustion.

An Imperial sentry accosted him immediately.

"What do you do here!" the man demanded in the coarse, barking tone all Imperials have. He thrust himself into Cirondel's face, sending garish torch light glaring across his face.

"What do I…" Cirondel repeated slowly, blinking; had the Empire's guards really become so paranoid within the last ten years that even the simple appearance of a High Elf on their shores prompted anxiety? "I bartered passage onboard a ship bound from Mournhold to Ebonheart," he explained, still confused. "I simply chose to take the last leg of the journey by my own devices. Have I broken any laws?"

"No," the Imperial grumbled, obviously disappointed. Then, eyes narrowing, "What's your name? We'll be checking identification against the ship's ledger when it docks."

"Cirondel," he replied quietly. "I assure you, you will find that my papers are in order. You can check them now, if you would like."

"Unnecessary," the guard mumbled. "I have a keen memory, I'll verify when the ship docks. It's due in the morning, correct?"

"Yes."

"Move along. No sense loitering if you've business elsewhere. But I'll have my eye on you, Altmer." He spun on one steel-booted heel and stalked away.

Cirondel waited until he was out of earshot, then murmured with a mild smile, "An eye on me? I doubt it. But feel free to try."

---


	14. Chapter 13

Dremora 

by Liz, "Thoreau"

Disclaimer: _Morrowind _is (c) to Bethesda Softworks, and I've no claim on anything other than the original characters mentioned. This story will, at some point, contain **slash** (that is, romantic situations involving two people of the same sex, **m/m **in this case). Don't read it if that bothers you.

Author's note: Whereas the previous chapter was very short, this one is fairly long--almost nine pages, in fact! I'm going to put a little **notice** up here about this chapter, however. **_There is a great deal of violence in the first part of this chapter, followed by slash (m/m) in the latter part of it_**. While I'm sure that most of you realize that this was going to turn up at some point or another, I'm just making this warning now so that I won't get hammered with insults and flames later by people who "didn't know." :P

Don't forget to give me C/C about this story. :3 I really like hearing what you have to say.

* * *

Chapter Thirteen

"Greoth, who is—"

"Shut up. Get behind me."

Greoth reached for the Daedric wakizashi concealed beneath his green robe, unsheathed it, and pressed himself flat to the wall of the corridor. From inside Kurnok Tor's office, the sound of rummaging fingers halted; behind him, Greoth heard Kehrik's breath catch, and hold.

He hardly believed it safe even to whisper, but Kehrik's grip on his arm was tight as a vice, his fingers hot and cold at the same time; the young noble was terrified, and Greoth knew that the only place he would be safe inside this manor was in the cellar basement. Still clutching at the wakizashi, he reached silently into his robe again and removed a ring of keys. He kept his hand tightly around them so that they didn't scrape together and make a sound that would give them away.

He turned halfway around and pressed the keys into Kehrik's grasp, moving his fingers tightly around them. "Go down to the cellar," he ordered in a breath that was hardly audible, "and lock yourself in. Don't open the door for anyone, even if you think it's me. I will come for you in half an hour."

"No, Greoth, _no—" _Kehrik started to protest, face gone white from terror; he was shaking his head, tightening his grip around the assassin's forearm. "I'll wait here, please, don't make me go, what if there are others in the house—"

"Go!" Greoth hissed, and at that moment, there was a sound of metal sliding cleanly against the interior of a scabbard, and a shadow cast itself in the doorway. Greoth fiercely shoved Kehrik towards the stairwell, then turned his back on the noble and prayed to every ancestor he'd ever heard of that the boy had the sense to get to the cellar and lock himself in before something unfortunate could happen. Greoth didn't allow himself the time to wonder if this intruder had gotten to Shandrel. She didn't matter; keeping _ Kehrik _alive mattered.

Greoth thrust himself into the doorway before the intruder could bustle his way through into the hall; he set one foot against the dark, beaten-up cuirass, and shoved with all his might back into the office. He recognized that armor; the Dark Brotherhood. The body that sprawled across the stone floor was large enough to be another Dunmer easily, and just as quick. In a flash, he was back on his feet, and Greoth nearly missed parrying the heavy broadsword that was thrust at him. It landed with a cacophonous clang against the blade of his wakizashi, sliding and grinding along the blade as its wielder tried to overpower Greoth and get a shot in at his midsection.

Brute force wouldn't win the skirmish, and so Greoth leaned backward and let the intruder's own strength work against him. He'd been anticipating a struggle, and when Greoth caved, the concealed figure stumbled forward and nearly impaled himself on the blade of Greoth's wakizashi. Greoth spun behind him and smacked the hilt of his blade across the intruder's helm; it stunned him, but only for a moment, and swinging himself around, the intruder struck a glancing blow across Greoth's midsection. It was deflected by the glass armor underneath, but Greoth still felt the brute force behind it, and staggered back, breathless for a moment.

That one moment of helplessness was all that his assailant needed. The disguised figure launched himself at Greoth, grabbing for the hand that held the wakizashi. Greoth stumbled backward and ripped his hand clumsily out of the way, forcing himself into a state of alertness. His attacker was mere inches away from him, one large hand heavy and tight on his shoulder as the other grabbed for the hand wielding the wakizashi.

Leaving his back vulnerable.

Greoth didn't know how thick or sturdy the armor was, but he suspected that if he put enough force into the thrust, he could a bladed weapon through it and into the flesh protected beneath. He continued staggering backward, knocking aside a wooden chair and sending Kurnok Tor's desk of precious records skidding across the floor recklessly, until he was pressed against the wall. The attacker flung his broadsword haphazardly at Greoth, swinging it at his neck and arms, trying to connect with something, anything, before he got close enough to grapple with Greoth again.

When he flung his weight into Greoth this time, Greoth was ready for him.

The intruder didn't know what was happening until it was far too late to do anything about it. As soon as Greoth felt the tilt of the attacker's weight in his direction, he quickly withdrew a steel, jinkblade dagger out from his torn and tattered robes, and thrust it as deeply as he could get the narrow blade to penetrate into his attacker's side. He felt the nauseating resistance of both flesh and bone as he held the writhing man tight in his arms and dug the weapon in deeper. The effects of the enchanted weapon were loathe to come about at first; Greoth presumed that his attacker might've taken a few potions to resist paralysis, but he couldn't resist forever, and if he did manage to resist paralysis, the loss of blood would kill him.

Gradually, he grew still, but Greoth could still hear the thundering of his heart in his chest, could feel his haggard breathing. The form in his arms was limp, and would remain so as long as that steel blade continuously seeped its paralyzing energy into the unidentified man's body. Greoth caught him as he sagged suddenly in his arms, then dragged him a few paces away from the wall so that he could sprawl on his back on the floor. Then, he knelt over his attacker, clasped the sides of his helm firmly, and pulled it away.

The face that greeted him was aging, malicious, and scarred; a Dunmer, judging by his ash gray skin and ruby red eyes, with greasy black hair and sharp teeth that were going yellow. Frozen in place, all the man could do was glare up at him with his teeth bared in a snarl of pain, panting out his breaths; blood was starting to force its way around the dagger in the man's side, trickling out of his armor to pool on the stone ground. Given fifteen minutes, sturdy constitution or not, the man would die.

But not before Greoth got a little bit of information out of him.

He thrust his hand forward and gnarled it in the greasy hair, tightening his grip. "Who sent you?"

The Dunmer hissed in discomfort and tried to twist away, but with his movement restricted due to the enchantment, the most he could do was tilt his head a bit and clench his fists. He stayed doggedly silent.

Greoth hated resorting to torture, but if it would keep Kehrik safe, he was willing to blink at it just this once. He moved a hand down to grip the hilt of the steel blade, and gave it a slow twist in the Dunmer man's side; he roared with pain as the sharp metal tore at his insides and ground against his ribs. Greoth clamped one hand down over his mouth to muffle the sound, tightening his grip to the point where, had he chosen to, he could have broken the man's jaw. Through even the paralysis, the Dunmer man thrashed his head from side to side, screaming in agony and trying to find something that wasn't Greoth's glass armor to bite into.

Greoth let go of both the hilt and the man's face, narrowing his eyes. "Who _sent _you!" he demanded, louder this time and with a venom in his voice he was glad Kehrik could not hear.

The Dunmer evidently did not have much fight in him, despite his cruel and scarred face. A little 'gentle' persuasion, and he caved easily; Greoth was expecting more of a struggle. "D… Dark Brotherhood," he croaked out thickly, his voice low and guttural.

"I figured that much," Greoth sneered coldly, reaching a hand towards the hilt of the weapon again; the Dunmer's eyes followed his hand, tensing as though in preparation for pain. Greoth stopped before his fingers could touch it, keeping his eyes fixed on the intruder's face.

When the pain did not come, the Dunmer's eyes flitted back to Greoth's, and his formerly panicked expression darkened with hatred. Greoth kept himself above it. "Give me a name," he growled in demand. "Tell me the name of whoever it is that sent you, and why. What was your objective?"

"Y-Yuleen," the man groaned out around a hiss of pain; Greoth knew that the man's time left alive was quickly running out. "Yuleen, of Mournhold—"

"Why," Greoth pressed insistently.

"Steal Tor's records, kill any witnesses." The intruder gave a sickly smile. "Kill the heir, and the widow."

Greoth did not let on that he knew Kehrik was alive—_hoped _he was alive. However, if this man had been here for long, then there was a good chance that Shandrel Tor was dead. And if Shandrel Tor was dead, then House Telvanni would inevitably become involved; Shandrel had been one of their own. "Did you carry out your objective?" he demanded in a threatening growl.

"Why don't you… go see for yourself?" the old Dunmer croaked in morbid reply, his chuckle thick with blood. His features distorted as he laughed, as though even through his death he'd somehow managed to have the final say in a matter of grave importance. Then, he began to gag, choking on something, and Greoth suspected that by the time he went to Shandrel's room and came back, the Dark Brotherhood assassin would be dead.

He got to his feet, left the jinkblade dagger embedded in the assassin's side, and stepped out of Kurnok Tor's office. Despite the hustle and bustle of the fight, the manor was eerily silent, eerily undisturbed. Greoth had expected at least a small guard to come up to see what the disturbance was about, but there was nothing. Nothing at _all._

Shandrel's door was at the end of the hall, and right away Greoth knew with a heavy heart that his patron's wife was dead. The elderly Dunmer woman _never _left her door open, not since Kehrik had stopped being a little boy; when he was small, he used to grow scared of the dark, sneak out of his bedroom, and run through the hall to crawl into bed with his parents. Greoth could remember having midnight guard duty, patrolling the corridor in silence, and there would be Kehrik, pitter-pattering towards his parents' room. Greoth and his brother used to joke about it to each other when they were very young, but when Tiloth was killed, Greoth found himself relying more and more on the hospitality and love provided by the Tor family, and that included the love of the little boy.

Shandrel had been a mother to Greoth when he had no way of being with his own. And now she was dead.

He walked slowly over to her door, settled his hand on the latch, and pushed it open.

There had been a struggle, ostensibly; her delicate, feminine cosmetics were scattered atop her vanity from where she'd fallen upon it, at one point, and there was a smudge of blood on the corner of the wood from where she'd gashed her forehead. Greoth's throat constricted tightly at the sight of her; she'd fallen onto her side on the floor, curled up on herself like a crushed butterfly. A pool of thick red blood, dark as a wolf's eyes, had formed and was now stagnating around her stiff body. There was no question in Greoth's mind as to whether or not she had died.

He bowed his head and murmured a soft prayer, then closed the door. Shandrel would not have wanted it to be left open.

His first thought was to go down to the cellar and make sure Kehrik had gotten there safely, but he caught himself before acting on it. Kehrik was in danger; even with the increased watch, a Dark Brotherhood assassin had managed to sneak in and execute the Tor widow, seemingly undetected. Kurnok Tor's murderer was still at large, one of two young boys were missing, and it was not even dawn yet. Who knew what had transpired during the night? What other innocents had been killed in their sleep, what other seemingly innocuous acts had tied people ignorant of their crime to this macabre stream of events?

No, Kehrik could not stay in the Tor manor. There was only once place where Greoth knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would be safe.

* * *

It definitely took longer than half an hour for Greoth to locate a Hlaalu guard, report the murder, and answer questions. By the time he had provided a secure alibi for where he was during the time of the murder, and by the time he had helped the guards secure the Tor manor and escort to safe lodging any tenants who had been sleeping inside, two hours had passed. Dawn was quickly approaching, the horizon gray and dark with thunderheads. Greoth rubbed at the sore spot on his stomach where the Dark Brotherhood assassin had struck him; he knew he was not wounded, but he would bruise badly. It was only when the excitement had faded, when curious members of the other houses had returned to their manors to sit and wonder if their lives would be next, when peasants and shopkeepers from across the river had returned to their dwellings, that Greoth quietly crept around to the back of the manor and, with his spare key, unlocked the door to the cellar.

The inside was dark and smelt of stored saltrice, smoked fish, hound, and rat meat, and leather armor that was in dire need of oiling. He hoisted the door further open, just enough to step inside, before closing it silently behind him. When he turned around to look into the depths of the dark room, he could barely make out the shapes of the crates and sacks lining the stone wall ahead of him.

He recognized Kehrik's shape immediately. The young man had paced a path through the dust on the floor, probably for half an hour, before he took Greoth to be dead and collapsed in a heap on some of the saltrice sacks. He was curled up there now, visible in what dim, morning light was filtering in through the small, half-a-foot tall glass window near the base of the stairs leading into the manor. His head was pillowed on his thin arms, his hands curled tightly into his sleeves; Greoth had forgotten how cold it could get this time of year.

For a moment, Greoth wanted to let him sleep for the rest of the morning; Greoth himself was exhausted. He hadn't slept since the previous night in his bedroom in the manor, and going on a full day without rest was not healthy. Nevertheless… the boy had to be woken. And for what point and purpose?

To be told that his mother was dead and that he was going to have to go into hiding until Greoth deemed it safe and suitable for him to return to public life.

He moved silently across the cellar floor to crouch in front of Kehrik, a hand reaching out to rest gingerly on his shoulder. The boy didn't stir at first; Greoth smiled wryly. There was a time when he, too, could have slept so deeply, but ever since he took up the assassin's trade, Greoth had learned to sleep with one eye open—constant vigilence, Eno Hlaalu called it. Greoth gently tightened his grip and gave Kehrik a slight shake, not daring himself to speak over a whisper. "Kehrik? Wake up."

Kehrik flinched as he finally came awake, his face pressing itself down into his covered hands. He gave a soft sound, almost like a whimper, and cracked his rose eyes open to stare sleepily into nothingness for a moment… before he became more aware of himself and of what was going on. He immediately looked up at Greoth, and a look like nothing he'd ever seen before in his entire life passed over Kehrik's features. It was a look of lazy contentment one feels after waking up next to a person one has woken up beside for many years, the kind of thoughtful, intimate gaze that only lovers exchange when they are confident of their privacy. The way it lingered on Greoth's eyes and lips made his mouth go dry.

Then, all of the night's events seemed to flood back to Kehrik in one great deluge, and that look of contented happiness left his features, replaced by terror, relief, and anxiety. Kehrik sat up abruptly as though burnt and flung his arms around Greoth's shoulders tightly; one hand knotted itself in Greoth's short hair, the other clutching at the armor through his robe. Greoth was nearly bowled over by the enthusiasm of the sudden embrace, falling backward onto the cellar floor. He wasn't even aware of his arms around the boy's thin waist and shoulders.

"Oh thank _heaven, _Greoth, I thought you were dead—"

"Kehrik—"

"—waited for you for half an hour, like you said, but you didn't come, and I was so afraid—"

"Kehrik, _ wait—"_

"—what if something had happened to you—Vivec be damned, look at your robe!" Kehrik sat back, touching with trembling fingers the ripped fabric at Greoth's midsection, his leg, his shoulders, the cut on his face. "Greoth, you've—there's—"

"There's what, Kehrik?" Greoth sighed; he wasn't even going to try to speak until the panicked noble had released all of his energy.

"There's blood on your face! What happened, were you cut?" Kehrik's palm flattened itself over a bit of sensitive skin on Greoth's face that Greoth had merely assumed was a little nick, nothing more. When Kehrik shakily drew his hand back, his fingers were wet with red stuff, and Greoth realized that the hot, sticky sensation he felt trickling down his cheek and over his neck was not sweat, but blood.

'So _that _was why the medic made such a fuss over me,' Greoth thought with private mirth. "It's only a cut," he assured Kehrik gently. "Here, I'll wipe it away." He reached down to his sleeve and ripped off some of the fabric; it was ruined already and he would have to buy himself another, so he didn't think much of taking another few inches out of it. He wiped it across his face and neck, getting rid of as much of the blood as he could without actually touching the wound. He knew that he should probably see a healer, but if it could be avoided, he would try. "Give me your hand, you've got it all over your fingers."

Kehrik held out his hand hesitantly, and Greoth took it, very gently. He marveled for a moment at the differences in their hands; his was the larger of the two, without dispute, with subtle muscle tone that caused every movement of his fingers to cause a tendon to stand out. Kehrik's was small and slim, an artist's hand with artist's fingers. They looked like ash gray porcelain, easily breakable if not handled with care. He drew the worn fabric across each of Kehrik's fingers slowly, wiping his blood off of the young man's skin.

Kurnok Tor's son watched each of Greoth's movements with a frozen sort of interest, as if he was still terrified of being leapt upon by an assassin at any moment. Greoth could feel Kehrik's eyes on him like two rose-colored beacons of light, scrutinizing his movements and the movements of shadows across his face. By the time Greoth realized he was wiping the same finger clean of blood, he stopped abruptly and set the worn bit of fabric aside. "Kehrik," he began softly, closing his eyes. "I have something very difficult to tell you—"

Kehrik didn't give him the chance to finish his sentence. He brought his hand up and let it rest against Greoth's cheek, thumb moving gently over his lower lip, over his chin, resting against his jaw. Kehrik watched his eyes intensely for about a second, before he removed his other hand from where it hovered between their bodies and wrapped it around Greoth's shoulder, bringing himself forward so that he could press his mouth against Greoth's in a slow kiss.

Greoth knew that he should not be moving his arms around Kehrik's back. He knew that in returning the kiss, in letting his head tilt slightly to the left so that he could deepen it, let his tongue move timidly along the seam of Kehrik's lips to implore entrance, he was committing more sins against his beloved Tribunal than he had ever imagined committing in his entire life. Not even when he had lain with that stupid human boy years before had he sinned as greatly as he did by running his fingertips over that slender neck, across those tapered ears, through the thick, silky locks of _Kurnok Tor's son_. Kehrik was pliant and willing in his embrace, breaking the kiss only to catch his breath when the world grew hazy and uncertain, and even then Greoth didn't give him time to recover. He caught Kehrik's face between his palms and guided their lips together again, trying to show Kehrik how to make breath _part _of the kiss, not a reprieve from it. And Kehrik was such a willing student to Greoth's tutelage, so easily molding himself against the armor covering Greoth's body—and Greoth could _still _ feel the heat generated by the young nobleman's body as it penetrated through his every defense, arousing a desire in him that he had not felt in years.

Self-restraint and shame kept him from tearing Kehrik's clothes from him and taking him, right there, on the cellar floor—how could he do this under Kurnok Tor's roof, with Shandrel's body not even cold from death yet? He broke the kiss with a hard gasp and looked away so that Kehrik could not draw him into another one; he could resist that temptation, but he could not keep his hands and arms off of Kehrik's shoulders and back. He glimpsed the young man's look of breathless confusion out of the corner of his eye, and swallowing hard, Greoth struggled to continue speaking where he had been cut off before.

"K-Kehrik," he began hoarsely, closing his eyes; he could feel the young man's hands against his face again, lips pressing to his forehead, the bridge of his nose, his lips again, pleading and tempting him to stop speaking, but Greoth was insistent this time. He placed a hand on the boy's chest and held him back. "…Shandrel is dead, Kehrik."

He'd been expecting denial and hysterics, but they didn't come. Kehrik's face was awash with despair, his eyes moist with tears that he resolutely did not let fall, but he did not beg for the obvious not to be true. He did not pound his fists into the ground, into Greoth's chest, or into the wall, and he did not tear at his hair and scream and demand why Greoth hadn't gone to the house sooner. He just sat very still and brought a hand up to cover his eyes for a moment; for an instant Greoth suspected that he was watching the last remnants of a boy slowly disappear, and instead, was greeted with a man. Perhaps he knew the danger he was in, perhaps he knew that the life he had become so accustomed to living was now over. He couldn't go back to his easy life as Lord Kurnok Tor's spoilt brat son. He had to become _Lord _Kehrik Tor, become powerful and strong and influential, or he would suffer the fate of his father and mother.

But Greoth wasn't willing to run the risk of seeing just how quickly Kehrik could _become _powerful and strong and influential. Until he was confident that the threat to the last Tor heir was squelched, Kehrik would not be seen by anyone save for Greoth and the select few other men and women in Vvardenfell for whom Greoth held immeasurable trust.

"I'm going to take you to Vivec," Greoth explained slowly, when he was sure that Kehrik was not about to cry and was instead focused on Greoth and what he was saying, "and you will stay with some people that I know are trustworthy. You cannot leave their care, but you are free to walk amongst them, so long as you don't…"

Kehrik's eyes were fixed on Greoth's features, a look of dawning understanding in his eyes. Still, he prompted, "So long as I don't… what, Greoth?"

"…give away the identities of anyone you meet."

There was silence between them as Greoth decided what to say. Surely by now Kehrik had figured out that the rumors spoken about him in hushed undertones in bars and taverns and lone Ashlander camps around Vvardenfell were most assuredly true, that he was an assassin, employed by the great houses of Morrowind to perform their ritual executions. He was a wraith that took life for a sum of money, a creature who separated himself from the men and women that he killed, keeping himself aloof to their screams and pleas for mercy.

Kehrik was breathless. "You're taking me to the Morag Tong, aren't you."

Greoth closed his eyes, and nodded. "Yes, Kehrik. I'm taking you to the Morag Tong."

---


	15. Chapter 14

Dremora 

by Liz, "Thoreau"

Disclaimer: _Morrowind _is (c) to Bethesda Softworks, and I've no claim on anything other than the original characters mentioned. This story will, at some point, contain **slash** (that is, romantic situations involving two people of the same sex, **m/m **in this case). Don't read it if that bothers you.

Author's note: Sorry about the long period between updates; I've had a lot going on, what with going back to school (I'm a senior this year, yay!) and working and other such things. It's been a pretty hectic few months for me. Anyway, this chapter was very hard to write too; I don't know what it is with me sometimes, but some of these chapters just don't like what I decide to do with them. 'Rilo decides to try and escape from Soft-As-Grass when he learns that they are going to Mournhold, but his escape ends up to be a run for his life when he angers a kagouti in the forest.

Don't forget to give me C/C about this story. :3 I really like hearing what you have to say.

* * *

Chapter Fourteen 

"I still wish we could've waited for a little while longer," 'Rilo insisted as he followed Soft-As-Grass cautiously through the ravine. "Maybe we could've gone to Pelagiad or something, maybe someone there would've seen—"

"No!" Soft-As-Grass exclaimed, looking visibly shaken as they crept along. Even as he protested, his voice was more of a hiss, not loud at all, and his large topaz eyes swiveled about uncertainly. "No, Soft-As-Grass and Vermillio—"

"'Rilo," 'Rilo corrected for probably the fiftieth time.

"—cannot go into town! Soft-As-Grass would surely be hurt, do you not see?"

"Well what about Yfael?" 'Rilo snapped back angrily, kicking a rock so far ahead of them that it skittered into a scrib and caused it to hiss at them and scurry away.

"He has been found by family," Soft-As-Grass said resolutely, peering towards the south, and the waterline. He lifted his webbed hand up so that the sunlight spilling in from the rising sun to the east wouldn't blind him. "We go this way," he declared.

"Where're we goin' anyway?" 'Rilo grumbled, stumbling a little on the slick foyada as they struggled along. He was tired and hungry, and the last thing he wanted to do right now was travel. Who did this Silk-For-Lips guy think he was, calling a little kid away from his family like this?

"First, Ebonheart," Soft-As-Grass said matter-of-factly, gesturing with one webbed paw as they walked. "Then we take boat to the mainland, and then Soft-As-Grass takes Vermillio—"

"'Rilo!" the boy growled out, bristling.

"—to Mournhold."

He blinked with widening eyes and stared at the back of the Argonian's head, following him only because they were now moving in the same direction. 'Rilo felt a coldness form in the pit of his stomach, and he couldn't have explained its presence away to anyone, let alone himself. How did Soft-As-Grass know that it was _'Rilo _that Silk-For-Lips needed? How did he know that _'Rilo _was even the right boy at all? What if this was all just some creepy misunderstanding, and _Yfael _was the one he needed? 'Rilo decided resolutely right then that if indeed Yfael was really who these men were after, he would keep his mouth shut. Yfael might've been stupid and a little careless with words sometimes, but he was still 'Rilo's best friend, and the best kind of friend any boy could ever ask for.

Mournhold. A shiver ran down the entire length of his small body, and he wasn't sure if it was brought on by the chill of the coming autumn wind or his own anxiety. 'Rilo had never ventured farther from his home than the Odai River, and here he was about to leave Vvardenfell altogether. He didn't _want _to leave Vvardenfell! Why did he have to go? A calculating look came into his eyes as he watched Soft-As-Grass continuing to pad along ahead of him. The Argonian had stopped binding his wrists and ankles at night—did that mean that Soft-As-Grass trusted him? Could 'Rilo maybe… trick him?

"Soft-As-Grass," he began uncertainly, glancing towards the waterline and the marsh that was reappearing as the ravine reached its end. "I've really gotta go to the bathroom."

Soft-As-Grass looked over his shoulder at 'Rilo, then pointed to the water. "Can Vermillio—"

"It's _'Rilo! _'Rilo, Soft-As-Grass, not Vermillio!"'Rilo groaned with frustration; if he had any hair, he was confident he'd be tearing it out now.

Soft-As-Grass shrank back at the little boy's wrath and stammered an apology, then gestured to the waterline again. "Can… _'Rilo…_not wait until Ebonheart?"

"No, I gotta go bad," 'Rilo said, and for emphasis he bit his lower lip, furrowed his brows, and did The Dance that every parent in Tamriel knows very, very well.

Soft-As-Grass looked flustered. "Yes," he said quickly, looking to the marshy forest. "Go there."

"Thank you!" 'Rilo said with extreme gratitude, but not because he was in dire need of emptying his bladder. He scrambled to the forest with giddy excitement fueling his already frantic pace, burst into the woods at a run, and took off.

He didn't stop to see if Soft-As-Grass was following him; as far as the Argonian knew, he was just trying to find a good place in the foliage to relieve himself, and who knew how far he might go until he was satisfied? 'Rilo knew. He was taking himself all the way back home, and if it was what his father wanted, then 'Rilo would never, ever, _ever, _go fishing again. He jumped over a fallen tree branch and ran along the thick trunk of a downed tree, leaping off of its end to avoid the nest of branches and leaves at the top; he ran through a brook trickling its way to the sea, splashing through the water and allowing himself a little childish laugh of delight at how the water particles danced in the early morning light filtering through the canopy overhead. He leapt up to grab onto an overhanging tree branch and swung from it like a monkey, propelling himself off of it to the ground, where he landed wrong and actually tumbled to his knees. And even then he didn't care; he'd had scuffed up knees every day of his life since he was small, and today would be no exception. 'Rilo scrambled to his feet and started to run again—

—and careened right into the tail end of a kagouti.

The large animal didn't seem to realized it'd been hit at first, and 'Rilo's face was bone white as he stumbled backward, hiding himself in the safety offered by a thick tree trunk. The kagouti heard his footsteps and whirled its massive, stumbling body around so that it's gruesome visage, drooling and growling, was made visible to 'Rilo. Two massive tusks thrust outward from its scarred maw, which was already filled with several equally dangerous teeth designed for tearing and mutilating. It's large head plate was red and yellow and covered in scars from fights with other kagouti, and from the looks of this one's bulging muscles and sharp eyes, _it _was the victor. It's thick, reptilian tail swung slowly behind it as a balancing tool.

They stood in a frozen stalemate for a moment, 'Rilo hidden though not exactly protected by the tree trunk and the kagouti only two steps away from determining 'Rilo's exact location. He knew that he had to breathe at some point, or the dizziness causing him to wobble would cause him to fall, and then he'd be eaten by this monster. Cautiously, he took a slow breath and stepped tentatively further behind the tree.

Something snapped under his foot, and the kagouti gave a bellowing cry of hunger and didn't bother running around the tree. 'Rilo gave a scream of terror as the beast plowed right through the thick trunk, and took off at a run through the forest again. Behind him he heard the thunderous splintering of age-old wood and the moans and groans of the tree as it suddenly fell towards the earth, landing with a resounding crash that surely would alert Soft-As-Grass to the fact that something was amiss. 'Rilo didn't care; he ran all the faster through the forest, feeling his eyes grow wet with moisture at the mere idea that this creature might kill him. He could hear its massive body encroaching on him.

He darted to the left, and the kagouti went right by him for another pace or two, stumbling to slow its pace and instead crashing into another tree. This one groaned in protest, its canopy waved precariously, but it didn't topple over. 'Rilo froze in place to see if the beast would be stopped, but a split second later its vicious little eyes were narrowed on 'Rilo, and it was off again, bellowing loudly and swinging its tusks this way and that at his head. 'Rilo shrieked again and scrambled backwards, before turning around and rushing away.

He barreled right out of the forest and into a small clearing, disturbing a Dunmer man from where he was making himself dinner. 'Rilo, desperate, flung himself towards the man.

"Please, help me, I'm gonna get eaten—"

"Get behind me," the man said, unsheathing what looked like some bizarre black sword from his hip. The man got to his feet, held his weapon aloft, and ran forward to meet the kagouti at the forest line.

Its massive form burst forth, roaring and snarling, and the stranger didn't give it time to take another step. He leapt forward and dived the entire length of his sword into its side, penetrating its thick leathery flesh. 'Rilo watched, awestruck, as the beast's fight went entirely out of it, and it crumbled almost piteously with a groan of pain to the forest floor. There was something almost tragic about how its majesty had been stolen from it so quickly… but 'Rilo was willing to sacrifice a little of _anything's _majesty if it meant he wasn't going to get eaten alive.

The stranger planted a boot against the animal's side and pulled his weapon out of its taut flesh with some difficulty. "What are you doing running about in the forest, boy?" he asked gruffly of 'Rilo, turning ruby colored eyes to him now; he had wild brown hair that stuck up on his head and refused to be tamed, a kind of natural sadness to his eyes that seemed to stay there always. His armor was curious, completely brown and with little scratches on it from when other swords had landed blows against him. For a moment, 'Rilo couldn't even think of a reply to his question—he was still trying to reassure himself that he was _not _going to be eaten.

Presently, another voice reached his ears, this one more faint and frantic than the Dunmer man's. It was Soft-As-Grass, and he was crying out ardently for 'Rilo.

"Where have you gone!? Soft-As-Grass heard cries, is 'Rilo all right?! Vermillio, you must _answer, please!"_

Something strange passed over the stranger's face at the sound of the Argonian's cries, and he looked at 'Rilo hard for a moment. "Vermillio Lasase?" he murmured gravely in question, picking up a filthy rag from where it lay beside the fire. He used it to wipe off the blood on his sword. "Is he looking for you?"

"I… no, he's… I mean…" Caught. 'Rilo could almost see the prospect of freedom slipping away from him, as though it was liquid slowly leaking through the tiny cracks in his fingers. And no matter how frantically he tried to keep hold of it, he couldn't. Soon, it would be gone.

"'Rilo!" Soft-As-Grass cried, stumbling into the clearing. "'Rilo is all right! Almalexia be praised!"

"Silk-For-Lips was right to send me after you," the stranger said sternly as Soft-As-Grass started forward. The Argonian froze mid-step and turned his head to look at the Dunmer, squinting at him for a moment, before scowling.

"Soft-As-Grass does not need your help," he said sulkily, then quickened his step towards 'Rilo. 'Rilo felt a moment's guilt as he realized that the Argonian really was worried for his safety. 'And I was trying to run away from him.'

"Evidently you do," the stranger replied with arched brows. "Silk-For-Lips thought so." He nodded his head towards 'Rilo. "Is this the one going to Mournhold?"

"It is so," Soft-As-Grass said stiffly in reply.

"I'll go with you to Ebonheart." A hand was extended forward. "I'm Vance Mythos. I don't know if we've ever worked together—"

"Soft-As-Grass knows who Vance Mythos is," the Argonian replied with a dark glare, pulling 'Rilo further behind him, as though to shield him from Vance's touch. 'Rilo didn't understand; Vance had just rescued him from the kagouti without even thinking twice about it. He couldn't be _that _bad. Nevertheless, he looked up at Vance with a curious frown and didn't say anything.

Vance's expression was unreadable. He looked between Soft-As-Grass and 'Rilo, then walked with pointed steps over to where he was still preparing dinner. "Come, lad," he said to 'Rilo at length, forcing cheer into his voice. "Let's get you something to eat."


End file.
